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WOMAN’S  FEIENDSHIP 


A STORY  OF  DOMESTIC  LIFE. 


AUTHOR  OF 


BY 


GRACE  AGUILAR, 


THE  DAYS  OF  BRUCE  HOME  SCENES  AND  HEART  STUDIES 

“ THE  VALE  OF  CEDARS ETC.  ETC. 


To  show  US  how  divine  a thing' 

A woman  maj^  be  made.” 

Wordsworth. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 

BY 

HELEN  J.  A.  AlILES. 


LONDON: 

GEOOMBRIDGE  AND  SONS, 

PATERNOSTER  ROW. 

1874. 


SIM  SON  AND  GROOMBRIDGE,  PRINTERS,  HERTFORD. 


WOMAN’S  FEIENDSHIP. 


4 


CHAPTER  1. 


FRIENDSHIP  DEMANDS  EQUALITY  OF  STATION. — TRUE  AFFECTION 
^ DEVOID  OF  SELFISHNESS. 


Beware,  dear  Florence ; I fear  this  warm  attachment  must 
end  in  disappointment,  fully  as  I can  sympathise  in  its  present 
happiness,’  was  the  warning  address  of  Mrs.  Leslie  to  an 
animated  girl,  who,  on  the  receipt  of  a note  and  its  rapid 
perusal,  had  bounded  towards  her  mother  with  an  exclamation 
of  irrepressible  joy. 

''Disappointment,  dearest  mother?  How  can  that  be?” 
^ was  her  eager  reply. 

"Because  friendship,  even  more  than  love,  demands  equality 
— 01  station.  Friends  cannot  be  to  each  other  what  they  ought 
to  be,  if  the  rank  of  one  party  be  among  the  nobles  of  the 
land,  that  of  the  other  lowly  as  your  own.” 

And  so  I told  her,  dear  mother ; at  least  so  my  manner 
must  have  said,  for  she  once  called  me  a silly  girl  to  be  so 
terrified  at  rank,  and  asked  me  if  I fancied,  because  ' Lady  ’ 
was  prefixed  to  her  name,  it  raised  up  an  impassable  barrier 
between  Ida  Villiers  and  Florence  Leslie.  I loved  her  from 
that  moment.” 

No  doubt,  ’ replied  her^  mother,  smiling.  " Yet  my 
^ Florence,  I wish  the  first  friendship  your  warm  heart  had 
^ mrmed  had  been  with  some  other  than  its  present  object. 

: know  how  often  I have  longed  for  you  to  find  a 

^lend  of  your  own  sex,  and  nearly  of  your  own  age,  on  whom 

B 


2 


TVOMANS  FEIENDSHIP. 


to  expend  some  of  those  ever-gushing  affections  you  lavish  so 
warmly  on  me  and  Minie — ’’ 

And  my  father  and  Walter,  do  I not  love  them?’'  laugh- 
ingly interrupted  Florence,  kneeling  down  to  caress  her  mother, 
as  she  spoke. 

Nay,  if  I must  enumerate  all  whom  Florence  loves,  I 
believe  we  must  add  Minie  s kitten  and  Walter’s  greyhound, 
and  all  the  mute  animals  which  come  to  her  for  protection 
and  care,”  rejoined  Mrs.  Leslie  in  the  same  tone ; ^^but  never- 
theless, I have  longed  for  you  to  find  a friend,  because  I feel 
you  stand  almost  alone.” 

Alone,  mother ! with  you  and  Minie  ? How  can  you 
speak  so  ? Have  I ever  wished  or  sought  another  ? ” 

No,  love  ; but  that  is  no  reason  why  your  mother  should 
not  wish  it  for  you.  Minie  is  a pet,  a plaything  for  us  all, 
younger  in  looks  and  manner  than  thirteen  years  may  justify, 
and  no  companion  for  your  present  pursuits  and  opening 
pleasures.” 

But  are  not  you  ? ” 

I cannot  be  to  you  all  I wish,  my  warm-hearted  girl,  or  all 
your  fancy  pictures  me,”  replied  Mrs.  Leslie,  with  difficulty 
suppressing  emotion;  confined  as  I am,  almost  continually,  to 
a sofa  or  bed  ; often  incapacitated  from  the  smallest  exertion, 
even  from  hearing  the  gay  laughter  of  my  children ; my 
sufferings  are  aggravated  by  the  painful  thought,  that  now 
you  need  female  companionship  and  sympathy  more  than 
ever,  I cannot  give  them.  A few  years  ago  you  were  still  a 
child,  and  your  natural  light-heartedness  bore  you  up  against 
all  that  might  seem  melancholy  in  your  home.  But  within 
the  last  year  I have  observed  that  my  sufferings  have  too 
often  infected  you  with  more  sadness  than  they  inflict  upon 
me  ; and  continually  to  watch  with  me,  and  to  bear  with  me, 
and  think  for  me,  this  is  no  task  for  you,  my  Florence.” 

‘‘It  is  so  precious  even  in  its  sorrow,  that  I would  not 
resign  it  for  anything  that  other  friends  might  offer,  dearest 
mother.  It  is  only  the  last  two  years  I have  been  conscious 
of  all  I owe  to  you,  and  all  you  endure,  and  all  the  trouble 
and  sadness  my  wilfulness  must  often  have  occasioned  you. 
And  if  I have  seemed  more  thoughtful  and  serious,  it  is 
because  I have  only  now  begun  to  think  and  feel.”^ 

“ And  for  that  very  reason,  my  child,  I have  wished  you  to 
find  some  friend,  whose  affection  and  personal  character  might 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


3 


sometimes  give  you  more  cheerful  matters  of  meditation,  and 
a happy  change  of  scene.  You  are  only  too  prone  to  think 
and  feel,  and  might  become  morbidly  sensitive  before  either 
of  us  had  imagined  the  danger.  I know,  too,  that  there  is  an 
age  when  the  young  require  more  than  their  natural  relatives 
whom  to  respect  and  love  ; they  fancy  it  no  credit  to  be  loved 
merely  in  their  domestic  circle ; they  need  an  interchange  of 
sentiment  and  pursuit,  and  all  their  innocent  recreations  and 
graver  duties  acquire  double  zest  from  being  shared  by  another. 
Sympathy  is  the  magic  charm  of  life  ; and  a friend  will  both 
give  it  and  feel  it,  and  never  shrink  from  speaking  truth, 
however  painful,  kindly  indeed,  but  faithfully,  and  will  infuse 
and  receive  strength  by  the  mutual  confidence  of  high  and 
religious  principle.  Trust  me,  there  are  such  friends,  my 
Florence,  friends  that  will  cling  to  each  other  through  weal  and 
through  woe,  who  will  never  permit  coldness  or  distrust  to 
creep  in,  and  dull  their  truth  : aye,  and  who  will  stand 
by,  protecting  and  comforting,  should  sorrow  or  even  sin  be 
the  lot  of  the  one,  and  that  of  the  other  be  happiness 
complete.’’ 

Mrs.  Leslie  ceased,  her  voice  becoming  almost  inaudible 
from  emotion  or  exhaustion.  Florence  imagined  the  latter 
cause,  for  there  was  a deep  flush  on  her  mother’s  usually  pallid 
cheek  which  alarmed  and  pained  her,  and  throwing  her  arms 
around  her  neck  she  begged  her  not  to  talk  too  much,  dearly 
as  she  loved  to  hear  her,  adding,  somewhat  mournfully,  You 
have  indeed  pictured  true  friendship,  mother,  and  that  which 
I yearn  for.  Lady  Ida  may  be  all  this  to  me,  but  I am  too 
lowly  in  station  and  in  merit  to  be  such  to  her  ; though  I do 
feel  I could  go  to  the  world’s  end  to  make  her  happier  than 
she  is.  Oh,  mother,  if  you  did  but  know  her  as  I do.” 

Without  that  pleasure,  my  dear  child,  I have  seen  enough 
of  her  to  know  that,  were  her  rank  less  high,  I could  not  wish 
a dearer,  truer  friend  for  Florence.  A character  like  yours, 
almost  too  clinging,  too  affectionate,  needs  the  support  of 
firmness  and  self-control,  qualities  I have  never  seen  possessed 
in  a more  powerful  degTee  than  by  Lady  Ida.  But  remember, 
my  Florence,  it  is  not  only  the  disparity  of  rank  which  must 
eventually  separate  you.  Lady  Ida  is  about  to  leave  England 
to  reside  in  Italy  for  an  indefinite  time.” 

‘‘And  with  my  whole  heart  I wish  she  could  set  off  directly, 
lonely  as  I should  feel,”  exclaimed  Florence,  eagerly. 

B 2 


4 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


doubt  you  do;  for  there  never  was  any  selfishness  in 
true  affection,  be  it  friendship  or  love.  Yet  still  I wish  there 
had  been  no  occasion  for  this  self-renunciation,  and  that  your 
first  friendship  had  not  been  with  one  from  whom  you  will 
so  soon  be  called  upon  to  part.’’ 

But  I would  not  lose  the  pleasure  of  the  present  to  escape 
the  pain  of  the  future.  You  know,  dear  mother,  I always  say 
I feel  that  pleasure  and  pain  are  twins  ; I never  feel  one  with- 
out the  other,  and  I should  be  a poor  miserable  being,  without 
a particle  of  spirit  or  animation,  if  I were  to  give  up  the  joy 
of  the  one  feeling  for  fear  of  the  suffering  of  the  other.” 

There  was  an  indefinable  expression  of  sadness  on  the  coun- 
tenance of  Mrs.  Leslie  as  her  mild  eye  rested  on  the  beaming 
features  of  her  child.  It  was  an  expression  which  others  might 
often  have  remarked,  but  when  observed  by  Florence,  she 
believed  it  natural  to  those  beloved  features,  marking  perhaps 
greater  suffering  of  body  than  usual,  and  in  consequence 
calling  forth  increased  tenderness  on  her  part. 

It  is  too  late  to  wish  the  present  pleasure  recalled,  my 
child  ; continue  to  love  Lady  Ida,  only  remember  there  must 
be  a cloud  in  your  horizon  of  joy,  that  this  intimacy  cannot 
last,  even  if  she  return  to  England.  Your  respective  stations 
cannot  permit  the  confidence  of  perfect  friendship,  and  my 
Florence  has  too  much  of  her  mother’s  pride  to  seek  to  be  a 
humble  friend.” 

‘‘I  could  never  be  such  to  Lady  Ida,”  replied  Florence,  ^^for 
she  would  cease  to  love  me,  or  at  least  to  feel  the  same  interest 
in  me,  if  I were.  No,  mother,  no;  I am  not  ashamed  to  stand 
in  a lower  grade  than  hers.  I shall  never  become  one  of  those 
despicable  characters,  who,  attempting  to  rise  above,  sink 
lower  than  their  natural  station,  and  thus  expose  themselves 
to  laughter  and  contempt.” 


CHAPTER  11. 


THE  LESLIE  FAMILY. — A MYSTERY. — LOVE  OF  COUNTRY  AFFECTED 
BY  ASSOCIATIONS. 

The  family,  of  whom  the  animated  speaker  of  the  preceding 
chapter  formed  so  engaging  a part,  consisted  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Leslie  and  their  three  children.  They  had  resided  for  several 
years  in  the  lovely  little  village  of  Babbicombe,  situated  on 
the  south  coast  of  Devonshire.  Occasional  visits  had  indeed 
been  made  to  the  metropolis,  and  other  parts  of  England; 
but  their  home  was  Devonshire,  and  there  had  the  affections 
of  Florence  taken  root,  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  her  nature. 
London  she  abhorred  ; she  fancied  its  denizens  were  cold  and 
heartless,  and  her  mind  had  not  yet  received  the  magic  touch 
which  could  awaken  it  to  those  treasures  of  art  and  science 
which  the  emporium  of  England’s  glory  so  richly  contains. 
As  yet,  the  music  of  the  birds  and  streams,  and  the  deeper 
bass  and  varied  tones  of  Ocean,  were  sweeter  harmonies  than 
the  rarest  talent  of  the  capital.  The  opening  flowers,  the 
diversified  scene  of  hill  and  dale,  the  groups  of  village  children, 
of  sturdy  peasants  and  rustic  girls,  amid  the  fields  and 
orchards,  presented  to  her  fancy  lovelier  pictures  and  more 
perfect  forms  than  the  finest  galleries  of  art. 

The  feelings  and  mysteries  of  her  own  loving  heart  and 
simple  mind  presented  enough  variety ; she  needed  not  change 
of  society  to  develop  her  intuitive  perception  of  character. 
Reading  with  avidity  all  that  she  could  obtain — history, 
poetry,  romance,  all  that  could  delineate  nature  according  to 
the  responses  of  her  own  heart — she  needed  no  other  recrea- 
tion. The  gentle  counsels  of  Mrs.  Leslie  preserved  her  from 
all  that  mawkish  sentiment  and  undue  prominence  of  romance 
which  in  some  dispositions  might  have  resulted  from  such 
indiscriminate  reading  at  an  age  so  early.  But  Florence  Leslie 


6 


woman’s  friendship. 


was  no  heroine,  to  take  a volume  of  Byron  or  Moore,  and 
wander  alone  amid  the  rocks,  and  fells,  and  woods  of  Babbi- 
combe,  and  weep  in  secret,  imagining  herself  to  be  some 
lovelorn  damsel,  and  pining  for  all  the  fascinating  heroes  of 
whom  she  read.  That  she  was  often  seen  tripping  lightly,  on 
an  early  summer  morning,  or  a cool  fresh  evening,  down  the 
hill  to  a favourite  cleft  in  a rock  almost  hidden  by  luxuriant 
brushwood  which  covered  it,  and  within  hearing  of  the  sono- 
rous voice  of  old  Ocean,  and  seen  too  with  a book  in  her 
hand,  we  pretend  not  to  deny.  But  look  not  aghast,  ye 
votaries  of  Byron  and  Moore,  that  volume  was  generally  one 
of  Felicia  Hemans,  or  Mary  Howitt ; or,  if  of  deeper  lore, 
Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  the  stirring  scenes  of  Scott,  or  the 
domestic  pictures  of  Edgeworth,  Mitford,  or  Austin.  Florence 
was  not  yet  old  enough,  or  perchance  wise  enough,  to  appreciate 
the  true  poetic  beauties  of  Lord  Byron’s  thrilling  lays,  or  the 
sweeter,  softer  music  of  Moore.  She  was  as  yet  only  sensible 
of  that  which  pleased  her  fancy  and  touched  her  heart ; and, 
therefore,  to  these  poets  her  gentle  spirit  echoed  no  reply. 

But  Florence  was  not  so  wedded  to  her  books,  and  shrubs, 
and  flowers  as  to  eschew  those  pleasures  which  might  perhaps 
appear  somewhat  irrelevant  to  such  a quiet  life.  No  one 
loved  a ball  so  well,  no  one  was  so  lightly  gay  in  all  festivity 
and  mirth.  The  morning  hour  might  see  her  in  tears  over  a 
favourite  book,  the  evening  find  her  the  life  and  centre  of  a 
happy  group  of  children,  laughing,  dancing  like  the  youngest 
there. 

Such  she  was  at  the  age  of  fifteen  ; seventeen  years  found 
this  internal  and  external  happiness  somewhat  clouded.  She 
became  more  awake  to  outward  things  ; to  the  consciousness 
of  and  S3nnpathy  with  the  sufferings  of  a mother  whom  she 
loved  with  no  common  love.  For  the  last  five  years,  Mrs.  Leslie 
had  been  labouring  under  an  incurable  disease,  which  not  only 
always  debilitated  her  frame,  producing  a languor  and  de- 
pression under  which  many  a mind  would  have  sunk,  but 
exposed  her  at  intervals  to  the  most  excruciating  suffering, 
which  she  would  yet  bear  so  uncomplainingly,  so  heroically, 
that  very  often  the  damp  drops  on  her  brow,  or  a fainting  fit, 
would  be  the  first  sign  that  she  was  enduring  pain.  A sudden 
and  violent  disease  would  have  alarmed,  and  thus  excited  the 
attention  even  of  a child ; but  Mrs.  Leslie’s  complaint  had 
crept  on  so  silently  and  unexpectedly,  her  languor  and  weakness 


woman’s  friendship. 


7 


were  so  successfully  combated,  that  it  was  not  strange  that 
Florence  should  have  failed  to  observe  them  at  first,  and  that 
when  she  did  so,  the  fact  should  have  dashed  her  glowing 
visions  with  a saddening  shade.  She  felt  the  pleasures  of 
gaiety  were  alloyed,  for  she  could  never  join  in  them  with 
her  mother. 

True,  the  yearning  for  something  more  to  love  was  not 
strong  enough  to  affect  her  happiness  ; for  when  by  Mrs. 
Leslie’s  side,  listening  to  her  loved  counsels,  or  caressing  her 
young  and  joyous  sister  Mary  (or  Minie,  as  she  was  always 
called),  she  felt  it  not.  It  was  only  when  taking  a ramble  too 
long  for  Minie,  or  joining  in  the  pleasures  of  evening  society, 
for  which  Minie  was  too  young,  and  which  were  for  Mrs.  Leslie 
too  painful  an  exertion,  that  she  was  conscious  she  might  be 
happier  still. 

There  was  an  ardent  longing  in  Florence  Leslie’s  heart  from 
her  earliest  years,  which  most  people  imagined  but  romantic 
folly  engendered  by  indiscriminate  reading,  and  a consequent 
love  of  adventure,  but  which  (strange  to  say)  always  appeared 
to  cause  Mrs.  Leslie  some  uneasiness.  All  that  concerned 
Italy,  from  the  driest  history,  the  deepest  antiquarian  research, 
to  the  lightest  poem,  were  pored  over  with  a pertinacity,  a 
constancy,  which  no  one  but  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Leslie,  perhaps, 
could  comprehend.  Rogers’s  poem  she  committed  to  memory 
page  after  page,  simply  for  recreation ; and  she  learned  to 
draw,  chiefly  in  order  to  copy  every  print  of  Italy,  modern  or 
ancient,  which  came  before  her. 

What  would  I not  give  to  have  some  claim  on  that  lovely 
land  !”  she  said  one  day,  when  only  twelve  years  old.  It  is 
so  foolish  merely  to  love.  Now,  if  I had  by  some  strange 
chance  been  born  there,  I might  love  Italy  as  much  as  I 
pleased.  By  the  way,  papa,  where  was  I born  ? I have  asked 
mamma  several  times,  and  there  seems  a fatality  attending 
her  answer,  for  I do  not  know  yet.” 

Mr.  Leslie’s  face  was  shaded  by  his  hand,  and  it  was 
twilight,  or  Florence  must  have  discovered  that  his  counte- 
nance was  slightly  troubled ; but  he  answered  quietly,  If 
you  so  much  wish  to  forswear  poor  old  England  as  your 
birthplace,  my  dear  child,  you  have  my  permission  so  to  do. 
For,  in  truth,  if  to  be  born  in  a country  makes  you  a child  of 
the  soil,  you  are  Italian,  having  first  seen  the  light  about 
twenty  miles  from  the  fair  town  whose  name  you  bear.’* 


8 


woman's  friendship. 


Italian  ! really,  truly,  Italian ! Oh ! you  dear,  good 
father,  to  tell  me  so.  Now  may  I love  it  as  much  as  I please. 
Italy,  dear,  beautiful  Italy  ! I am  your  own  child ! Mamma, 
naughty  mamma!’’  she  continued,  bounding  to  Mrs.  Leslie, 
as  she  entered  the  room,  ^'why  did  you  never  tell  me  I was 
Italian?  I must  go  and  tell  Walter  and  nurse and  away 
she  flew,  utterly  unconscious  of  the  agitation  her  words  had 
produced  in  Mrs.  Leslie,  who,  as  the  door  closed  behind  her, 
sank  on  a chair  by  her  husband’s  side,  faintly  exclaiming — 

Edward,  dearest  Edward  ! what  have  you  told  her  ?” 

^‘Nothing,  dearest,  trust  me,  nothing  that  can  in  any  way 
disturb  her  serenity  or  happiness,  or  excite  the  least  suspicion 
in  herself  or  others,  inimical  to  her  present  or  future  peace. 
I did  but  tell  her  she  was  born  in  Italy,  which,  did  she  ever 
mingle  with  my  family,  she  would  find  many  to  confirm  ; and 
you  know  it  is  but  the  truth,  dearest  wife.” 

Mrs.  Leslie  breathed  more  freely. 

I am  very  weak  and  very  foolish,”  she  said,  after  a pause  ; 

but  the  slightest  reference  to  her  birth  utterly  unnerves  me. 
Dearest  Edward,  there  come  to  me  at  times  such  horrible 
forebodings,  as  if  we  had  scarcely  done  right  to  act  as  we  have 
done ; and  yet  it  was  my  own  request,  my  first  weighty  boon, 
and  not  granted  by  you  without  a painful  struggle ; if 
there  be  fault — if  evil  come  of  it — I have  brought  it  on 
myself.” 

Do  not  speak  thus,  my  noble  Mary,”  was  her  husband’s 
instant  reply,  pressing  her  as  he  spoke  to  his  bosom.  What 
fault  can  there  be  in  acting  as  you  did  ? What  evil  can  come 
from  it  to  dash  your  noble  deed  with  woe  ?” 

If  she  should  ever  learn,”  faintly  murmured  Mrs.  Leslie, 
^‘ever  know  the  truth  ?” 

It  is  not  likely  she  ever  will,  nor  can  there  be  any  need 
she  should.  Loved,  cherished,  aye,  and  dutiful  and  affectionate 
as  she  is,  God  grant  that  she  may  never  leave  our  home  till 
she  quits  it  for  a happier  one.” 

Amen  1 ” fervently  responded  Mrs.  Leslie  ; and  what 
further  might  have  passed  between  them  was  checked  by  the 
re-entrance  of  their  child. 

As  Florence  outgrew  the  period  of  childhood,  and  merged 
into  opening  womanhood,  there  was  something  in  the  intense 
blackness  of  her  large,  lustrous  eye,  the  glossy  tresses  of  her 
long,  jet-black  hair,  the  rich  complexion,  which,  though 


woman’s  friendship. 


9 


refined,  and  rendered  peculiarly  delicate  from  the  effects  of  an 
English  climate,  was  certainly  more  brunette  than  blonde,  that 
seemed  in  truth  to  mark  her  of  more  southern  origin  than 
her  mother  and  little  sister,  between  whom  and  herself  there 
was  no  affinity  of  feature  whatever.  Minie  was  a lovely 
English  child,  exquisitely  fair,  with  deep  blue  eyes,  and 
clustering  curls  of  gold,  and  a voice  that,  even  at  twelve  years 
old,  was  something  so  extraordinary  in  its  compass,  its 
flexibility,  that  many  a professor  might  have  envied  her  the 
gift. 

Florence  was  no  regular  beauty,  but  very  graceful,  with  a 
modest  and  winning  manner,  and  an  ever-varying  expression  of 
feature,  which  rendered  her  a most  lovable  creature.  Flattery, 
Florence  instinctively  abhorred ; but  if  any  one  told  her  her 
eyes  and  complexion  were  more  Italian  than  English,  she 
would  be  as  innocently  delighted  as  a child  with  a new  toy. 

The  other  child  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Leslie  was  a delicate  boy, 
two  years  the  junior  of  Florence,  between  whom  and  himself 
many  an  animated  discussion  was  wont  to  take  place,  on  what 
they  termed  the  respective  merits  of  their  respective  countries. 
On  one  of  these  occasions,  Florence  met  the  glance  of  her 
mother,  full  of  that  sorrowful  meaning  which  she  had  only 
lately  learned  to  remark,  and  she  hastened  towards  her  to 
cover  her  with  caresses,  and  ask  if  she  could  do  anything  to 
alleviate  her  pain. 

'‘Mamma  does  not  like  to  hear  you  abuse  old  England,” 
was  Walter’s  laughing  rejoinder,  as  her  mother  assured  her  she 
w'as  not  suffering. 

" I did  not  abuse  it ; I love  it,  Walter ; but  I love  Italy 
more,  and  mamma  loves  it  too.” 

" Not  better  than  England,  Florence ; not  so  well : look  at 
her  eyes.” 

Florence  did  look,  and  seemed  disappointed ; Mrs.  Leslie 
smiled. 

" I have  passed  many  happy,  but  more  sorrowful,  days  in 
Italy,  my  dear  children  ; and,  as  we  generally  love  a country 
from  association,  I candidly  own  it  would  give  me  more  pain 
than  pleasure  to  visit  those  classic  shores  again.” 

" There  ! ” exclaimed  Walter,  triumphantly. 

" It  is  not  likely  I shall  ever  have  the  happiness  of  seeing 
them ; so  let  me  love  on,  at  least,”  rejoined  Florence,  in  a 
sorrowful  tone. 


CHAPTER  III. 


EFFECTS  OF  FASHIONABLE  TRAINING. — THE  STORY  OPENS. 


Among  the  many  visitors  to  the  mild  and  beautiful  seaport  of 
Torquay  was  the  family  of  Lord  Melford,  a nobleman  with 
whom  Mr.  Leslie,  during  his  casual  visits  *to  the  metropolis, 
had  become  acquainted,  from  having  done  him  some  essential 
service  in  the  way  of  business.  The  climate  of  Devonshire 
having  been  recommended  for  the  health  of  one  of  his 
daughters,  two  successive  winters  found  the  family  com- 
fortably domiciled  in  a noble  residence  near  the  town,  acknow- 
ledged to  be  second  only  to  Tor  Abbey  in  importance,  both 
for  interior  arrangements  and  exterior  beauty  ; its  picturesque 
localities  possessing  all  the  varied  charms  of  hill  and  dale, 
wood  and  water,  peculiar  to  Devonshire. 

Lady  Melford  and  her  daughters  made  it  a point  to  return 
Mr.  Leslie  s services  by  attentions  to  that  gentleman’s  family. 
Florence  was  not  a being  to  be  passed  unnoticed.  Her 
animation,  her  grace,  her  cultivated  mind  and  intuitive  refine- 
ment, were  acknowledged  even  by  those  accustomed  to  the 
most  fashionable  society ; and,  consequently,  she  was  invited 
to  St.  John’s,  made  much  of  by  the  Misses  Melford,  dignified 
by  the  title  of  the  Honourable  Emily  Melford’s  'intimate 
friend,”  caressed  by  the  Viscountess  herself,  and  though  not 
yet  out,”  admitted  to  all  their  domestic  festivities. 

Still  Florence  retained  her  independent  spirit,  her  love  of 
her  own  more  humble  home,  untinged  by  a wish  to  exchange 
her  unpretending  sphere  for  that  of  her  noble  friends.  Not- 
withstanding that  she  became  an  object  of  envy  to  many  a 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


11 


young  lady  in  the  vicinity,  who  thought  her  pretensions  to 
the  notice  of  Lady  Melford  were  quite  as  good  as  Miss  'Leslie's, 
not  one  in  the  whole  neighbourhood  could  be  found  to  say 
that  this  distinction  had  changed  one  tittle  of  her  character. 
She  was  heard  to  declare  that  it  was  worth  while  to  mix  with 
grandeur  and  be  petted  by  strangers  a little  while,  as  it  only 
made  her  feel  how  much  dearer  was  her  home,  how  much 
more  precious  the  love  of  its  inmates  than  they  had  ever 
seemed  before. 

Though  the  refinement  of  high  rank  and  well-cultivated 
minds,  mingled  with  lighter  accomplishments,  rendered  the 
Honourable  Misses  Melford  far  more  congenial  companions  to 
our  young  heroine  than  any  she  had  yet  met  with,  there  was 
still  something  wanting;  the  mystery  of  sympathy,  that 
curious  power  which  links  us  with  kindred  minds,  which  bids 
us  feel,  long  before  the  lights  and  shadows  of  character  can  be 
distinguished,  that  we  have  met  with  the  rich  blessing  of  a 
heart  which  can  understand  us,  and  on  which  our  own  may 
lean.  A fashionable  education,  and,  in  the  two  elder,  the 
gaieties  of  four  or  five  London  seasons,  had  been  productive 
of  their  natural  consequences,  coldness  and  heartlessness, 
which  could  not  assimilate  with  the  ardent  temperament  of 
Florence.  She  knew  not  their  extent,  for  they  were  always 
kind  to  her,  and  she  did  not  feel  any  restraint  before  them  ; 
but  she  intuitively  felt  that  all  her  high  aspirations,  her  ex- 
alted feelings  had  better  not  be  spoken,  for  they  would  not 
be  understood  ; even  Emily  Melford,  though  but  just  eighteen, 
had  not  passed  through  the  ordeal  of  fashionable  training 
entirely  unscathed  ; perhaps,  too,  nature  was  as  much  in  fault 
as  education,  for  she  was  naturally  cold,  though  so  independent 
in  thought  and  action,  as  often  to  startle  Florence. 

The  first  winter,  St.  John's  had  only  been  honoured  by  the 
presence  of  Lady  Melford  and  her  daughters,  occasionally 
varied  by  visits  from  the  Viscount,  and  the  Honourable 
Frederick  and  Alfred  Melford,  true  specimens  of  joke-loving, 
amusement-seeking,  young  men  of  fashion,  whose  gaiety  and 
good  feeling  excited  the  mirth  and  ready  enjoyment  of 
Florence,  but  nothing  more.  The  second  winter  brought  an 
addition  to  the  family.  Emily  had  alluded  to  a cousin,  her 
mother’s  niece,  the  Lady  Ida  Villiers,  eight  years  her  senior, 
and  spoken  so  rapturously  of  her  exceeding  grace  and  beauty, 
and  richly-gifted  mind,  that  Florence  thought  these  all- 


12 


WOMANS  FRIENDSHIP. 


sufficient  food  for  fancy ; but  tlie  tale  connected  with 
Lady  Ida  was  such  as  to  interest  much  colder  hearts  than 
hers. 

She  had  lost  her  father  seven  years  previously  ; her  mother 
some  time  before  ; and  Lady  Ida,  the  last  of  an  ancient  line, 
was  left  under  the  guardianship  of  Lord  Melford,  until  the 
age  of  twenty-four,  when  full  liberty  became  her  own.  The 
title  of  her  father,  the  ancient  earldom  of  Edgemere,  had 
indeed  gone  to  a distant  branch,  but  his  possessions,  with 
little  diminution,  passed  to  his  daughter,  leaving  her,  in 
consequence,  a wealthy  heiress.  She  had  certainly  charms 
enough,  both  of  person  and  mind,  to  remove  all  idea  that  she 
could  be  sought  merely  for  fortune  ; but  whatever  the  cause, 
the  richest  and  proudest  bowed  before  her,  acknowledged  her 
surpassing  loveliness,  and  besought,  in  all  the  varieties  of 
passion,  the  honour  of  her  hand.  But  the  heart  of  the  Lady 
Ida  Villiers  had  appeared  to  be  as  cold  as  ice  ; her  majesty  of 
demeanour  had  never  descended  to  encouragement,  in  even 
the  passing  courtesy  of  the  moment.  All  were  rejected,  some 
with  winning  kindness,  some  with  contemptuous  scorn,  ac- 
cording as  her  quick  and  penetrative  mind  discovered  the  true 
feeling  or  worldly-seeldng  pretence  of  her  respective  suitors. 
In  vain  her  guardians  expostulated,  and  Lord  Melford, 
remembering  he  was  an  uncle  also,  took  upon  himself  to 
threaten.  The  young  lady  was  inexorable,  and,  at  length, 
the  truth  was  discovered.  The  heart  which  had  appeared 
impregnable,  had,  in  fact,  been  carried  by  storm  already  ; and 
Lady  Ida  scrupled  neither  to  deny  nor  to-  conceal  it,  for  its 
love  was  returned  ; she  knew  this  in  spite  of  the  hopelessness 
with  which  it  was  accompanied. 

Edmund  St.  Maur  was  the  youngest  branch  of  the  noble 
family  whose  name  he  bore.  There  was  a chance  of  the' 
barony  becoming  his,  but  a chance  far  too  remote  for  specula- 
tion. Moreover,  he  and  his  widowed  mother  were  poor;  poor, 
at  least,  for  the  sphere  in  which  their  relationship  to  rank 
imperatively  called  them  to  move  ; and  Edmund  was  of  that 
delicate  frame  and  constitution,  which  are  too  often  attendant 
on  studious  habits  and  reflective  minds.  The  late  Lord 
Edgemere  had  known  the  worth  of  both  mother  and  son,  and 
had  cherished  and  encouraged  the  intimacy  between  them 
and  his  child.  Whether  he  ever  thought  of  danger  arising 
from  it,  or  really  would  not  have  objected  to  the  union  of 


woman’s  friendship. 


IS 


Lady  Ida  with  the  poor  but  high-minded  Edmund  St.  Maur, 
could  never  be  ascertained,  as  he  died  before  Ida  herself  was- 
aware  of  the  engaged  state  of  her  affections ; and  St.  Maur, 
whatever  might  have  been  his  private  feelings,  knew  his 
position  too  well  to  think  of  their  betrayal. 

Lady  Ida  had  not,  however,  been  a year  an  orphan,  before 
the  faded  form  and  pallid  cheek  of  Edmund  startled  her  into 
perfect  consciousness  as  to  the  state  of  her  own  heart ; and 
with  all  the  refinement  and  delicacy  of  a high  and  pure  mind,, 
she  recalled  all  that  had  ever  passed  between  them,  all  that- 
she  knew  of  his  character,  and  felt  that  gold,  despicable  gold, 
had  caused  this  change.  His  too  sensitive  mind  imagined  that 
fortune  had  for  ever  divided  them,  that  he  dared  not  aspire  to 
her  hand.  She  knew  his  pride,  and  felt  that  did  she  not 
advance  more  forward  than  was,  perhaps,  quite  consistent  with 
maidenly  propriety,  not  only  her  own  happiness  but  his  would 
be  sacrificed  for  ever.  Her  first  measures  were  sufficiently 
unsuccessful  to  rob  her  own  cheek  of  its  glow,  her  own  form  of 
its  roundness  ; the  more  kind,  the  more  gracious  her  manner, 
nay,  the  more  she  thought  to  draw  him  to  her  side,  the  more 
he  shunned  her. 

But  how  did  she  ever  discover  his  sentiments  ? how  ever 
conquer  his  pride  ? ” was  Florence  Leslie’s  ardent  exclamation, 
aware  of  the  sequel,  yet  not  imagining  how  these  difficulties 
could  be  overcome ; and  Emily  Melford,  as  eager  to  speak  as 
her  companion  to  listen,  continued — 

''  Simply,  because  he  chanced  to  have  a mother  in  whom  he 
could  confide  a tale  of  love.  It  was  easy  for  Lady  Helen  to 
penetrate  Ida’s  secret,  and  the  betrayal  of  Edmund’s  sentiments 
of  course  followed.  Once  assured  that  she  was  beloved,  neither 
her  own  maiden  modesty  nor  natural  pride  could  be  in  aught 
impugned.  All  reserve  was  at  an  end  ; they  understood  each 
other,  and  never  were  three  happier  persons,  I believe,  than 
Ida  and  Edmund,  and  not  least.  Lady  Helen.” 

She  must  have  been  happy,  for  it  was  greatly  her  doing,” 
observed  Florence.  '^But  why  are  they  not  married  yet?  why 
only  engaged  ? ” 

For  a very  weighty  reason  ; Ida  had  to  bear  the  brunt  of 
all  sorts  of  persecution — my  honourable  family  at  their  head  ; 
every  one  who  could  claim  the  most  distant  relationship  chose 
to  declare  she  should  not  so  throw  herself  away,  that  it  was 
worse  than  folly ; she  was  wedding  herself  not  alone  with 


14 


^VOMAN’s  miENDSHIP. 


poverty,  but  with  death,  for  every  one  must  see  Edmund  St. 
Maur  had  not  five  years  more  to  live/’ 

How  cruel ! ” indignantly  exclaimed  Florence. 

Cruel,  in  truth  ; and  not  content  with  this,  invectives 
nearly  approaching  to  insult  were  thrown  at  her  by  all,  not 
excepting  my  own  family.” 

Not  lady  Melford  ? — impossible  ! ” 

‘"No,  not  mamma;  she  had  rather  more  regard  for  her 
sister’s  daughter,  though  she  disapproved  of  the  match  quite 
as  much  as  others.  If  the  good  folks  had  ever  misunderstood 
my  cousin  before,  it  was  impossible  to  misunderstand  her  then. 
She  bore  the  storm  firmly,  and,  in  appearance,  unconcernedly. 
Papa  once  went  the  length  of  saying,  he  would  prohibit  the 
marriage.  She  told  him  very  calmly  that  she  understood  his 
legal  authority  ended  when  she  was  four-and-twenty,  and  she 
did  not  intend  to  marry  till  then.  When  the  important  day 
arrived,  and,  becoming  her  own  mistress,  there  seemed  no 
farther  obstacle  to  her  happiness,  St.  Maur  was  suddenly  taken 
seriously  ill,  as  the  medical  man  declared,  from  over-excite- 
ment, and  so  many  dangerous  symptoms  returned,  that  he  was 
peremptorily  desired  to  winter  at  Madeira,  and  then  to  remain 
in  Italy  till  his  health  was  perfectly  re-established.  They 
assured  Lady  Helen  and  my  cousin  that  if  he  did  this,  no 
danger  whatever  need  be  apprehended ; but  if  he  should  remain 
in  England,  they  could  not  answer  for  the  consequences. 
Imagine  poor  Ida’s  anguish  : even  at  this  moment  she  would 
have  united  her  fate  with  his,  that  she  might  be  permitted  to 
follow  him,  and  be  his  nurse  and  his  untiring  attendant  ; but 
Edmund  was  far  too  unselfish,  even  in  his  love,  to  permit  this 
sacrifice  on  her  part ; and  Lady  Helen,  much  as  she  felt  for 
her,  seconded  her  son.  All  things  were  against  poor  Ida.  The 
medical  fraternity  put  a decided  negative  on  her  proposal ; 
declaring  that,  in  his  present  state,  even  the  pain  of  separation 
would  be  better  borne  than  the  excitement  of  her  presence. 
The  opinion  of  Sir  Charles  Brashleigh  at  length  made  her 
yield  ; she  consented  to  let  her  lover  go  without  her,  though 
she  well  knew  what  a period  of  anxiety  and  sulBfering  his 
absence,  and  in  this  precarious  state,  would  be  to  her.  I never 
saw  her  so  wholly  and  utterly  overcome  as  she  was  the  first 
week  after  his  departure.  She  struggled  against  it  till  she 
was  thrown  on  a bed  of  sickness,  and  I am  certain  she  will 
neither  look  nor  feel  like  herself  till  she  shall  rejoin  him.” 


woman’s  friendship. 


15 


‘'And  when  will  that  be?”  inquired  Florence,  her  eyes 
swelling  in  tears  ; ‘‘  how  long  have  they  been  parted  ? ” 

“Nearly  eighteen  months,  and  it  has  been  a period  of 
intense  anxiety  to  Ida.  The  accounts  have  become  more  and 
more  favourable,  but  of  course  poor  Ida  cannot  feel  happy^  or 
secure,  till  she  is  by  his  side.  Papa  is  so  angry  at  her  resist- 
ance to  his  authority,  th^t  he  will  not  allow  us  to  go  to  Italy, 
as  we  all  wished  to  do  ; he  fancies  separation  will  do  the  work 
for  him,  and  that  they  will  forget  each  other.  However,  next 
spring  or  autumn.  Lord  Edgemere’s  family  go  to  Kome,  and 
Ida  goes  with  them.” 

“ Oh,  what  a blessed  time  to  look  forward  to  ! ” exclaimed 
Florence ; who  added,  “ but  you  say  she  has  even  encountered 
persecution  from  your  own  family — surely  your  sisters  must 
have  been  her  friends  ? ” 

“ Surely  not,  my  very  simple  girl.  Georgiana  imagined 
herself  one  of  the  greatest  wits  and  scholars  of  the  day ; and 
that  Ida,  without  the  least  effort,  should  surpass  her,  and 
fascinate  not  only  the  butterflies,  but  every  man  of  genius  and 
letters  who  approached  her,  was  somewhat  too  mortifying  to  be 
borne  meekly.  No  woman  ever  yet  quietly  surrendered  the 
reputation  of  superior  talents  to  another  woman,  and  certainly 
not  to  a younger.  Then  Sophia  once  dreamed  she  was  a 
beauty ; and  though  three  successive  crowded  seasons  passed, 
and  no  reward  of  that  beauty  made  its  appearance  in  anything 
like  an  offer  of  marriage,  she  chose  to  imagine  Ida’s  faultless 
face  and  form  a decided  affront  to  her,  and  so  disliked  her 
accordingly.” 

“How  can  you  speak  so  of  your  sisters?”  inquired  Florence, 
half  laughingly,  half  reproachfully. 

“ How  can  I ? very  easily,  for  I hate  little-mindedness.  My 
dear  Florence,  London  is  very  different  from  the  country. 
Sisters  so  often  become  rivals ; there  is  so  little  time  in  the 
whirl  of  gaiety  for  words  and  acts  of  mutual  kindness,  that  we 
should  laugh  at  the  idea  of  imagining  them . better  than  other 
people.” 

“ Save  me  from  London,  then  ! ” ejaculated  Florence,  so 
heartily,  that^  her  companion  was  yet  more  amused ; but 
Florence  continued — “ How  comes  it,  Emily,  that  you  can 
afford  to  speak  so  enthusiastically  of  Lady  Ida.” 

“ Simply,  first,  because  I know  I am  no  beauty ; secondly, 
it  is  too  much  trouble  to  attempt  rivalling  her  in  talent  or  in 


16 


woman’s  friendship. 


W2t ; and,  thirdly,  she  is  eight  years  older  than  I am,  and 
before  I make  my  debut  she  will  have  passed  all  ordeal,  by 
taking  unto  herself  a partner  for  better  or  worse,  and  so  she 
cannot  be  my  rival ; so  do  not  give  me  credit  for  any  seeming 
amiability,  for  if  I were  a belle,  and  a would-be  blue  one,  I 
should  be  just  as  envious  as  others.” 


P(UJt  17. 


r 


CHAPTER  IV. 


IDA. — SYMPATHY. — PRIENDSHIP  POBMED. 


Lady  ida  Villiebs  came,  and  Florence  Leslie  found  every 
vision  of  fancy  and  anticipation  more  than  realised.  It  was 
impossible  for  such  an  enthusiastic,  affectionate  being  as  her- 
self to  be  in  Lady  Ida’s  company,  to  listen  to  her  varied 
powers  of  conversation,  which  she  had  the  rare  faculty  of 
adapting  to  every  character  with  whom  she  mingled,  still  more 
to  find  herself,  after  the  first  few  days,  an  object  of  notice, 
even  of  interest,  without  feeling  every  ardent  affection,  based 
on  esteem,  enlisted  in  her  cause.  She  found,  to  her  utmost 
astonishment,  that  her  thoughts  were  read  by  her  new  com- 
panion before  she  had  shaped  them  into  words;  her  tastes 
drawn  forth  irresistibly  to  meet  with  sympathy  and  improve- 
ment ; her  simple  pleasures,  both  in  books  and  nature,  appre- 
ciated, encouraged,  and  so  delightfully  directed  higher  than 
she  had  ever  ventured  alone,  that  every  hour  spent  in  Lady 
Ida’s  society  was  productive  of  pleasures  which  she  had  never 
even  imagined  before.  Nor  was  it  only  by  words  that  Lady 
Ida’s  character  opened  itself  to  the  admiring  and  wondering 
gaze  of  Florence.  She  observed  her  daily  conduct  to  those 
around  her.  Courteous  and  kind,  to  her  aunt  far  more  affec- 
tionate than  either  of  her  own  daughters — no  stranger  could 
have  ever  imagined  she  was  simply  returning  good  for  evil  ; 
even  to  her  uncle  she  never  failed  in  courtesy  and  gentleness, 
though  his  manner  towards  her  was  always  cold  and  super- 
cilious. The  trials  of  her  own  heart,  her  own  anxieties,  never 
passed  her  lips  ; but  the  paleness  of  her  beautiful  cheek,  the 
occasional  dimness  of  the  large,  soft,  hazel  eye,  the  fragility  of 
her  finely-proportioned  form,  were  only  too  painful  evidences 
of  all  which  in  secret  she  endured. 


18 


WOMANS  FRIENDSHIP. 


Obtuse  beings,  indeed,  might  not  have  marked  these  things ; . 
but  Florence  did,  and  with  all  the  vivid  imaginativeness  of 
her  nature,  placed  herself  in  Lady  Ida’s  situation,  and 
shuddered.  Faithful  love  and  mutual  devotion  were  subjects 
absolutely  hallowed  to  her  fancy ; and  so  strong  was  this 
feeling,  that  her  own  heart  beat  thick  and  painfully  on  those 
days  when  letters  could  be  received  from  Italy,  and  her  quick 
eye,  awakened  by  affection,  could  read  the  rapidly  increasing 
paleness  of  Lady  Ida’s  cheek,  the  trembling  of  the  hand 
rendering  every  effort  to  continue  drawing,  writing,  or  work 
impossible,  though  all  the  while  her  conversation  upon  different 
subjects  would  continue  without  hesitation  or  pause.  Once 
she  had  been  present  when  one  of  these  precious  letters  was 
unexpectedly  brought  to  her  friend,  and  Lady  Ida,  it  seemed, 
had  forgotten  any  one  was  near,  for  the  thrilling  cry  of 
transport  with  which  she  seized  the  papers,  the  passionate 
kisses  she  pressed  on  the  senseless  letters  which  composed  his 
name,  the  burst  of  fervent  thankfulness  which  escaped  her  lips, 
betrayed  how  strong  must  be  the  control  which  she  exercised 
when  receiving  similar  treasures  in  presence  of  her  family. 

Some  dispositions  would  have  triumphed  in  witnessing  this 
absence  of  restraint,  would  have  hugged  themselves  up  in  the 
belief  that  they  were  more  in  her  confidence  than  others. 
Not  so  Florence  Leslie.  She  glided  from  the  apartment  a,s 
silently,  as  fleetly,  as  if  she  fancied  herself  guilty  in  tarrying 
one  moment  to  witness  emotions  so  sacred  and  so  blessed. 
Now  it  so  happened  that  Lady  Ida  was  aware  of  her  young 
companion’s  presence  when  the  packet  was  received,  but  not 
till  the  delight  of  its  perusal  was  in  part  subsided  had  she 
leisure  to  remark  that  Florence  had  disappeared,  bearing  the 
drawing  on  which  she  had  been  engaged  along  with  her.  The 
action  struck  her,  and  heightened  the  interest  that  from  the 
first  the  simple  country  girl  had  excited ; nor  was  the  feeling 
decreased  by  the  glistening  eye  and  timid  accents  with  which, 
when  they  met  again,  and,  as  it  chanced,  alone,  Florence 
ventured  to  ask — 

If  the  news  from  Italy  were  favourable  ? If  Mr.  St.  Maur 
were  as  well  as  by  the  last  accounts  ? ” 

The  pressure  of  the  hand  which  accompanied  the  rapid 
answer,  Better,  my  dear  girl,  better  than  he  has  been  yet, 
and  for  a much  longer  interval,”  at  once  told  her  that  Lady 
Ida  accepted  her  sympathy. 


WOAIAN’S  rHIENDSHIP.- 


19 


No  persuasion,  no  authority,  could  prevail  on  Lady  Ida  to 
join  Lady  Melford  and  her  daughters  in  their  yisitings,.  balls, 
concerts,  and  other  Christmas  amusements,  with  which  they 
sought  to  while  away  their  sojourn  in  the  country. 

Georgiana  and  Sophia  called  her  proud  and  overbearing, 
and  said  that  the  poor  simple  folks  of  Torquay  were  not  good 
enough  to  associate  with  one  so  fastidious.  Even  Lady 
Melford  represented  that  her  reserve  might  create  unpleasant 
feelings,  which  would  be  better  avoided. 

''  Tell  them  the  truth,  my  dear  aunt,’’  was  her  half-laughing, 
though  earnest  reply ; tell  them  Lady  Ida  Villiers  has  for- 
sworn all  gaiety  such  as  visiting  engenders,  till  she  has  made  a 
pilgTimage  to  St.  Peter  s,  and  has  returned  thence  miraculously 
cured.  Pray  smooth  all  the  plumes  my  reserve  may  have 
ruffled,  by  the  true  information,  that  for  the  last  eighteen 
months  I have  withdrawn  myself  almost  entirely  from  London 
society ; that  I mean  not  the  very  slightest  affront ; and  if 
my  word  be  not  sufficient,  I will  give  them  references  to 
Almack’s  and  lady  patronesses,  and  to  all  the  givers  of  balls, 
concerts,  private  theatricals,  etc.,  as  vouchers  of  my  truth.” 

How  can  you  be  so  ridiculous,  Ida  ? You  make  yourself 
the  laughing-stock  of  the  country  by  this  perverseness.  I 
shall  tell  them  no  such  thing.  Surely,  when  you  are  the  wife 
of  Edmund  St.  Maur,  it  will  be  time  enough  to  make  such  a 
sacrifice ; there  is  no  occasion  for  it  beforehand.” 

Then  you  see,  aunt,  you  would  do  less  to  save  the  poor 
people’s  feelings  than  I would.” 

^‘As  if  such  a tale  would  be  believed,”  interposed  Miss 
Melford,  sourly. 

Disbelief  is  their  sin,  then,  Georgy,  not  mine ; I would  tell 
the  truth.” 

But  laugh  off  such  attacks  as  she  might,  she  was  not  to  be 
persuaded;  and  much  to  the  marvel  of  her  cousins,  the 
greater  part  of  the  gentry  continued  to  give  her  the  meed  of 
admiration  still. 

Lady  Ida  Villiers  might  and  did  refuse  to  enter  into  evening 
gaieties ; but  their  residence  in  Torquay  presented  her  with 
one  rich  source  of  gratification,  which  drew  her  from  herself 
almost  unconsciously — Nature.  The  beautiful  scenery  of 
Devonshire  presented,  even  in  the  winter  months,  sufficient 
charm  to  banish  all  recollection  that  in  summer  it  could  be 
lovelier  still.  Lady  Ida  would  order  out  her  own  carriage, 

c 2 


20 


woman’s  friendship. 


and  leaving  the  gay  resorts  of  the  town,  put  herself  under  the 
guidance  of  the  delighted  Florence,  and  explore  the  country 
for  twenty  miles  round ; and  when  there,  sketches  were  to  be 
taken,  associations  of  history  or  romance  recalled,  passages  of 
favourite  poems  sought  for,  in  glowing  words,  to  embody  the 
imagery  around. 

For  Florence  these  were,  indeed,  happy  days.  She  gave 
vent  to  her  vivid  fancy,  her  exuberant  elasticity  of  spirits,  for 
it  was  impossible  to  retain  the  silencing  awe  which  Lady  Ida’s 
superior  endowments,  both  personal  and  mental,  had  first 
inspired,  when  thus  unrestrainedly  enjoying  her  society. 
Emily  Melford  was  often  of  their  party,  and  by  her  quaint 
remarks  only  heightened  our  young  heroine’s  buoyant  mirth  ; 
and  in  witnessing  her  happiness.  Lady  Ida,  ever  the  most 
unselfish  of  mortals,  could  forget  her  own  anxieties,  and 
rejoice  that  even  in  her  present  depression  she  had  the  power 
of  bestowing  so  much  joy. 

Florence,  you  really  are  such  an  admirable  cicerone,  I 
must  recommend  you  to  all  visitors  of  Devonshire.  If  it  had 
not  been  for  you  I should  have  left  the  county  as  ignorant  of 
its  beauties  as  I entered  it,”  was  Lady  Ida’s  observation,  when 
returning  from  a beautiful  excursion  to  the  ruins  of  Berry 
Pomeroy  Castle. 

Their  road  was  winding  close  by  the  banks  of  the  Teign, 
seeming  to  be  divided  from  the  river  only  by  the  high  luxu- 
riant trees,  which  growing  on  either  side  so  closely,  the 
carriage  would  have  been  in  some  danger  had  it  encountered 
any  other  vehicle.  There  were  innumerable  evergreen  shrubs, 
and  the  clear  tracery  of  every  minute  branch  and  twig  of  the 
trees  against  the  light  blue  sky  produced  as  beautiful  an  effect 
as  the  darker  and  richer  shades  of  summer.  The  sun,  too, 
was  setting  with  that  gorgeousness  peculiar  to  Devonshire 
even  in  the  winter  months;  and  the  river  reflected  every 
shade  with  a fidelity  as  lovely  as  it  was  striking. 

You  certainly  ought  to  give  some  weighty  proof  of  grati- 
tude, Ida  ; for  either  Florence  or  Devonshire  has  made  you  a 
different  being.  You  are  more  like  yourself  than  I ever  see 
you  in  London,”  rejoined  Emily. 

Poor  London,  for  what  sins  has  it  not  to  be  answerable  in 
your  estimation,  Emily?  I wish  you  would  be  candid  for 
once.  You  abuse  London,  because,  you  say,  the  people  are  so 
cold  and  artificial,  and  for  a multitude  of  causes  which  I 


WOMANS  FRIENDSHIP. 


21 


cannot  define.  Will  you  tell  me,  are  your  country  visitors 
more  to  your  taste  ? ” 

No  ; they  are  as  much  too  simple  as  the  Londoners  are 
too  artificial ; but  at  least  you  can  escape  from  their  influence 
better  here  than  in  London.’’ 

Then  you  would  like  to  live  an  anchorite  in  the  country?” 

Not  for  the  world ! I like  society,  bad  as  it  is,  too 
well?” 

''  Then  pray  do  not  abuse  it.  You  know  I often  tell  you, 
Emily,  it  is  your  own  natural  coldness  which  reflects  itself 
upon  everybody.” 

Thanks  for  the  compliment,  most  noble  cousin.” 

‘‘It  is  no  compliment,  Emily,  but  sad,  sober  truth.  I 
Qannot  bear  such  sentiments  in  one  so  young ; for  what  in- 
justice or  evil  can  you  have  witnessed  ? ” 

“ None  in  the  world ; only  as  we  believe  in  original  sin, 
there  must  be  some  contradiction  to  our  faith  in  human 
virtue.  Now,  as  I mean  to  be  consistent,  I uphold  that  evil 
is  more  prevalent  than  good  ; and,  to  descend  from  such  grave 
subjects,  that  we  meet  disagreeable  people  more  often  than 
agreeable  ones.” 

“ Perhaps  so  ; but  there  is  good  in  the  world,  dark  as  it  is 
— great  good,  and  the  sublimest  virtue.  I believe  there  may 
be  almost  perfect  characters  even  on  earth.” 

“Edmund  St.  Maur,  for  instance,”  interrupted  Emily 
Melford,  mischievously. 

“ No,  Emily,”  replied  Lady  Ida,  gravely.  “If  I had  made 
him  an  idol  of  perfection,  I should  stand  but  little  chance  of 
lasting  happiness ; for  I should  be  liable  to  have  my  bright 
picture  tarnished  by  all  the  unforeseen  chances  and  changes  of 
life.  I esteem  him,  or  I would  not  wed  him  ; but  I know  his 
failings,  as  I trust  he  does  mine.  He  is  not  old  enough  for 
the  perfection  to  which  I allude  ; he  has  had  the  trial  neither 
of  adversity  nor  of  prosperity — I mean,  in  the  extreme.  His 
mother  comes  far  nearer  my  standard  of  perfection  in  human 
character  than  my  Edmund.” 

“ Eloquently  answered,  at  least,  cousin  mine  ; I may  believe 
you  or  not,  as  I please.  Florence,  what  are  you  thinking 
about  ? Ida  is  no  oracle,  that  you  should  so  devour  her 
words.  My  wisdom  is  quite  as  good.” 

“ I do  not  think  so,  Emily  ; for  my  feelings  side  with  her 
view  of  the  question.” 


22 


woman’s  friendship. 


/ 

^ But  I wish  you  would  tell  me,  Lady  Ida,  all  you  find  to 
like  in  London.” 

All,  Florence  ? what  a question ! Why,  a great  many 
things ; some  of  which,  had  I you  near  me,  I would  compel 
you  to  like  London  for,  too.  Its  magazines  of  art ; its 
galleries  of  painting  and  sculpture  ; its  varied  avenues  to  the 
indulgence  of  every  taste — in  music,  from  the  solemn  strains 
of  our  sublime  Handel  to  the  lightest  melody  of  the  Italians. 
Then  there  are  all  the  literati  of.  the  land.  We  may  gather 
around  us  the  poet,  the  philosopher,  the  novelist,  and  mark  if 
their  characters  accord  with  their  writings,  and  love  or  shun 
them  accordingly.  Oh  ! there  are  many  things  to  make  a 
residence  in  London  delightful  for  a while ; though  I acknow- 
ledge with  you,  I should  wish  my  home  to  be  an  old  baronial 
hall  of  dear  old  England.” 

But  these  things.  Lady  Ida,  are  only  for  the  noble  and 
rich.  Now,  in  Borne,  Naples,  Florence,  such  treasures  of  art 
and  science  are  open  to  every  rank  and  every  fortune ; and 
there  too,  with  the  most  lovely  country  that  eye  can  dwell  on 
or  mind  delight  in.” 

So  it  seems  from  a distance,  my  dear  girl.  When  I return 
from  my  pilgrimage  to  Italy,  I will  give  you  truer  impressions. 
Will  you  trust  me  ? and,  meanwhile,  rest  content  in  Old 
England  ? ” 

Yes,  if  5"ou  will  tell  me.” 

If  I will ! what  do  you  mean  ? ” 

The  eyes  of  Florence  slowly  filled  with  tears,  and  she  turned 
hastily  to  the  window,  exclaiming  at  the  same  instant  that 
they  were  at  home. 


CHAPTEH  V. 


A MORNING  AT  ST.  JOHN’s. 


That  Florence  Leslie’s  simple  and  unselfish  nature  was  un- 
corrupted by  the  notice  she  attracted  in  the  noble  circle  of 
St.  John’s,  many  trifling  incidents  served  to  prove.  She  had 
been  spending  some  days,  as  usual,  at  St.  John’s,  and  was 
seated  one  morning  in  Lady  Ida’s  own  boudoir,  employed  in 
finishing  a drawing  of  a pretty  little  group  of  peasant  children, 
who  had  attracted  her  notice  on  a late  excursion.  Lady  Ida 
was  embroidering ; Emily  Melford,  stretched  listlessly  on  a 
sofa,  reading,  every  now  and  then  uttering  sounds  expressive 
(as  Florence  declared)  of  such  disapproval,  that  she  wondered 
how  she  could  go  on  with  the  book.  It  was  a lovely  morning 
in  March,  so  balmy  that  the  French  windows  were  open, 
permitting  the  entrance  of  a complete  flood  of  sunshine. 
Already  the  lawn,  on  which  the  windows  opened,  was  spangled 
with  snowdrops,  hepaticas,  violets,  double  and  single  primroses, 
and  the  loveliest  hyacinths  of  every  brilliant  colour  decorated 
the  room.  It  was  a lovely  retreat,  peculiarly  delightful  to 
Florence,  from  the  books,  the  music,  prints,  and  flowers,  which 
Lady  Ida’s  taste  had  collected  around  her.  Their  retirement 
was  often  invaded  by  Alfred  Melford,  who  declared  himself  a 
butterfly,  seeking  the  warmest  sunshine  ; and  so,  wherever  he 
might  rove  for  awhile,  he  was  even  compelled  to  return  to  his 
cousin’s  boudoir. 

‘‘  What  is  the  matter,  Emily  ? Why  are  you  groaning  over 
your  book  in  this  melancholy  style  ? If  it  be  such  trash,  why 
xead  it  ?” 


24 


woman’s  triendship. 


Because  I have  nearly  exhausted  all  the  libraries  in  this 
out-of-the-world  place,  and  I am  even  compelled  to  resort  to 
this,  over  which  I chanced  to  find  that  simpleton  Florence 
deeply  affected  the  other  day ; so,  as  I will  give  her  credit 
sometimes  for  good  taste,  I thought  I would  try  it.” 

I should  think  you  need  scarcely  resort  to  public  libraries 
for  books  to  while  away  your  time,  before  dinner  at  least. 
My  uncle  has  furnished  a plentiful  supply,  I am  sure,  and  you 
are  quite  welcome  to  any  of  mine.” 

Thanks,  cousin  mine  ; I am  too  lazy  in  the  country  for 
anything  but  novels  ; they  sickened  me  with  history,  and 
almost  with  poetry,  at  school.” 

For  heaven’s  sake,  Emily,  do  not  say  so,  and  still  more, 
do  not  feel  so.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  never  intend 
reading  anything  serious  again  ?” 

Now,  Ida,  do  not  preach.  You  do  not  know  what  it  is  to 
be  under  fashionable  thraldom,  and  care,  rigid  as  that  of  any 
lady  abbess,  for  fourteen  years  out  of  nineteen ; so  you  cannot 
tell  what  it  is  to  feel  free.  I mean  to  seek  my  own  comfort, 
my  own  pleasure  henceforth,  to  make  up  for  it.” 

‘‘And  be  the  most  selfish,  most  disagreeable  being  amongst 
all  those  you  dignify  with  such  appellations,”  replied  Lady 
Ida,  indignantly.  “ If  you  do,  only  keep  out  of  my  way,  for 
I shall  disclaim  all  relationship  with  you.” 

“But  what  is  there  in  this  book  you  so  dislike,  Emily?” 
interposed  Florence.  And  an  animated  discussion  of  its 
excellence  and  non-excellence  followed,  which  we  have  no 
space  to  transcribe  : it  ended  by  Emily’s  declaring  that 
Florence  was  certainly  intended  for  a poet,  as  she  had  such 
highflown  notions  of  human  nature — all  the  worse  for  her. 

“ Why  all  the  worse  ?” 

“Because  you  will  never  be  appreciated  or  understood,  and 
are  doomed  to  lonely  musing  all  your  life.” 

“ Do  not  heed  her,  Florence,”  interposed  Lady  Ida ; “ she 
judges  all  the  world  by  herself.” 

“ Oh,  but  you  do  not  know  Florence  as  I do  : she  says  it  is 
not  only  possible  but  quite  natural  to  seek  the  happiness  of 
those  we  love  more  than  our  own.” 

“ Well,  and  she  is  right.” 

“What,  even  in  the  rivalry  of  love  ?” 

“ Stop,  Emily,  let  me  tell  Lady  Ida  exactly  what  I said — 
simply  that  I thought  it  was  possible  for  a woman  to  love 


TYOMAIS’S  FRIENDSHIP. 


25^ 


before  feeling  certain  of  a return ; and  that,  should  she  ever 
discover  the  happiness  of  him  she  loved  was  unfortunately 
distinct  from  her  own,  she  would  do  everything  in  her  power 
to  forward  that  happiness,  even  if  in  so  doing  she  condemned 
herself  to  misery.  Emily  declares  it  is  impossible,  and  that 
she  should  hate  herself,  her  supposed  lover,  and  his  more 
fortunate  choice,  one  and  all  inveterately.” 

'‘It  is  a weighty  subject  for  decision,  Florence,”  replied 
Lady  Ida,  "requiring  more  complete  immolation  of  self  than, 
perhaps,  any  but  those  in  such  an  emergency  can  imagine];  but 
that  there  are  such  noble  spirits  I do  most  truthfully  believe.” 

" There,  Emily  !”  exclaimed  Florence,  triumphantly. 

"Wait  till  you  yourself  are  in  such  an  enviable  position, 
and  decide  on  the  possibility  or  impossibility  then,”  replied 
Emily. 

" If  such  suffering  were  indeed  mine,  heaven  grant  I should 
feel  and  act  the  same  ; and  that  I might  be  stronger,  firmer, 
0,  how  much  firmer  than  I am  now  !”  responded  Florence  ; 
and  there  was  so  much  solemnity,  so  much  feeling  in  the  tone, 
that  it  effectually  checked  any  further  jesting  on  the  part  of 
Emily.  All  that  is  really  natural  is  always  affecting;  and 
Florence  was  so  completely  a child  of  nature,  that  what  would 
have  appeared  folly  in  others,  in  her  did  but  enhance  the 
interest  she  never  failed  to  excite,  and  increase  affection  in 
every  heart  capable  of  appreciating  and  understanding  her. 

"And  I say,  Florence,  dearest,  heaven  grant  you  may  never 
pass  through  such  a fiery  ordeal,  for,  of  all  persons,  you  are 
the  least  fitted  to  endure  it,”  answered  Lady  Ida,  in  a tone 
which  brought  her  young  companion  to  the  cushion  at  her 
feet,  and  resting  her  arm  on  her  knee,  Florence  simply  asked, 
"Why?” 

" Because  you  give  me  the  idea  of  one  formed  but  for 
happiness,  my  gentle-minded  girl.  One  who  is  so  continually 
alive  to  the  feelings,  joys,  and  griefs  of  others,  ought  to  be 
happy  herself.  It  would  be  a real  grief  to  me  to  hear  you 
were  in  sorrow,  Florence.” 

" So,  if  your  love  is  to  be  unreturned,  do  not  love  at  all,” 
laughingly  added  Emily;  "or  Ida  will  have  to  grieve  somewhat 
too  soon.” 

" Love ! oh,  I never  mean  to  love ! I dread  its  power  far 
too  much.  You  know  what  my  song  says;”  and  the  lively 
girl  flew  to  the  piano,  and  warbled  forth  : — 


26 


woman’s  feiendship. 


Xo,  tempt  me  not,  I will  not  love  ! 

My  soul  could  scarce  sustain 

The  thrilling  transports  of  its  bliss — 

The  anguish  of  its  pain  : 

Too  full  of  joy  for  earth  to  know, 

Too  wild  to  look  above  ; 

I could  not  bear  the  doubt,  the  dread  — 

No  ! no  1 I will  not  love  ! 

No,  tempt  me  not — love’s  sweetest  flower 
Hath  poison  in  its  smile  ; 

Love  only  woos  with  dazzling  power. 

To  fetter  hearts  the  while  : 

I will  not  wear  its  rosy  chain, 

Nor  e’en  its  fragrance  prove  ; 

I fear  too  much  love’s  silent  pain — 

No  ! no  ! I will  not  love  !” 

“ Bravo,  Florence  ! ” exclaimed  Alfred  Melford,  bounding 
through  the  open  window,  with  a pink  note  in  his  hand ; I 
never  heard  you  sing  so  well ; what  has  inspired  you  ?” 

"‘Your  absence,  of  course,  and  the  absence  of  all  critical 
listeners,  but  Ida  and  myself.  What  have  you  there 

Something  to  shake  off  your  ennui.  An  invitation  to  a 
ball  at  the  Oaklands.” 

"‘Oh,  delightful!  give  it  me;”  and  the  young  lady  was 
absolutely  roused  enough  to  spring  from  her  sofa,  and  snatch 
the  note  from  her  brother  s hand  : “and  one  for  Ida,  too,  of 
course,  and  of  course  she  will  not  go.  Florence,  do  you  think 
your  family  are  asked  ? ” 

“ Probably  not.  Your  friends  associate  but  with  lords  and 
ladies,  gold  and  jewels ; and,  believing  fine  feathers  make  fine 
birds,  unless  I would  consent  to  go,  jackdaw  fashion,  bedecked 
in  borrowed  plumes,  they  would  not  admit  me.” 

“Florence  Leslie  a satirist!”  rejoined  young  Melford, 
laughing;  “who  would  have  believed  it?  What  a joke  it 
would  be  to  attire  and  proclaim  you  the  Lady  Ida  Villiers, 
and  take  you  with  us.  You  are  much  of  the  same  height — Ida, 
do  bestow  your  jewels  and  name  on  Florence  for  the  night.” 

“ She  is  welcome  to  them,  if  she  will  accept  them,”  replide 
Lady  Ida. 

“ Thank  you,  I had  rather  not,  even  if  I stood  no  chance  of 
being  recognised  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Oakland  themselves,  and 
the  greater  number  of  their  guests  ; I will  never  go  where  my 
own  proper  person  is  despised.” 


WOMANS  FEIENDSHIP. 


27 


Proud  too,  Miss  Florence  ! why,  I never  knew  you  before 
to-day.  I vow  if  you  were  not  likely  to  be  discovered,  you 
should  go  as  Lady  Ida  ; but  as  Miss  Leslie  cannot,  Ida,  I wish 
you  would,  if  it  were  only  to  give  these  affecters  of  refinement 
a taste  of  England’s  real  dignity  and  pride.” 

“You  know  I never  go  anywhere,  Alfred;  and  Florence  has 
not  given  me  any  desire  to  make  an  exception  in  favour  of 
Mrs.  Oakland.” 

“ Ida  can  give  the  good  folks  of  the  country  a much  better 
idea  of  London  refinement  and  fashion,  than  by  going  out  to 
do  so,  Alfred.  I have  been  conjuring  and  beseeching  her  to 
give  a ball,  preceded  by  a regular  series  of  tableaux  mvans, 
dress,  scenery,  frame  and  all.  One  of  the  large  rooms  up-stairs 
would  do  admirably  for  it,  and  then  a ball ! Why,  this  poor 
rustic  town  would  be  in  convulsions  of  excitement  for  months 
afterwards  ; and,  as  for  you,  what  would  you  not  be  in  their 
estimation  ? Beauty — grace — fascination  ! Ida,  you  would 
impress  yourself  on  every  Devonshire  heart  indelibly,  to  the 
utter  forgetfulness  of  all  the  seeming  pride  with  which  you 
may  have  been  charged.  You  promised  me  to  think  about  it.” 

“ But  not  to  grant  it,  Emily.” 

“Oh,  but  to  think  about  it  is  half  consent.  Alfred, — 
Florence,  you  might  assist  me  with  your  united  influence.” 

“ I am  sure  I will,  even  on  my  knee,  sweet  cousin  mine  ; be 
merciful — think  how  rusticated,  how  gothic  we  are  here,  and 
for  pity  give  us  some  taste  of  London  and  its  fashion.  The 
governor  is  much  too  solemn  for  anything  but  those  great 
pompous  dinners,  which,  in  a country  place  like  this,  I detest. 
Now,  do  be  kind,  sweet  Ida ; Edmund  is  better,  you  are  going 
to  Italy  next  August,  and,  in  all  probability,  ere  the  year  is 
out,  will  have  merged  the  Lady  Ida  Villiers  in  the  Lady  Ida 
St.  Maur.  Now,  all  these  things  considered,  ought  you  not 
to  give  us  poor  mortals  the  thing  -we  crave  ? You  know 
Edmund  has  taken  you  to  task  very  often,  for  making  yourself 
a nun  for  his  sake  ; and,  I am  sure,  if  I could  but  write  and 
ask  him,  he  would  say — Ida.,  be  obliging  ; give  the  poor  folks 
a ball.” 

“Alfred,  you  are  perfectly  absurd;  get  up,  and  be  a rational 
being.  Florence,  what  do  you  say — shall  I give  this  said  ball 
— would  you  like  it  ?” 

“ Would  I not ! ” exclaimed  Florence,  with  animation ; “and 
the  tableaux  ! oh  ! I have  wished  to  see  them  so  very  often.” 


28 


woman’s  friendship. 


Mind,  then,  if  I grant  this  weighty  boon,  I engage  you 
for  one  of  my  principal  performers.” 

Me ! dear  Lady  Ida ; I should  be  terrified  out  of  all 
pleasure — ^how  could  I compete  with  Mrs.  and  the  Misses 
Oakland  ?” 

Oh,  admirably!”  interposed  Melford,  comically;  ‘^you 
shall  not  dance  at  the  ball,  if  you  will  not  give  your  aid  to 
the  tableaux.  Come,  cousin,  love,  I give  you  a fortnight  to 
think  of  it;  for  it  must  not  be  till  Easter  week.  Frederic 
comes  down  then  with  my  father,  and  they  bring  a host  of 
people  with  them,  so  we  shall  muster  a splendid  corps.  I 
promise  to  be  rational  and  grave,  and  all  you  can  possibly 
desire.” 

'^And  I will  read  every  wise  book  you  can  recommend,  and 
forswear  all  novels  till  after  your  ball,  Ida,  dear,”  continued 
Emily,  hanging  caressingly  about  her  cousin's  neck. 

^'And  not  remember  one  word  of  my  wise  books,  as  you  call 
them,”  replied  Lady  Ida,  laughing.  Well,  wait  till  my  next 
letters  from  Italy,  and  I promise  you  a decided  answer  then.” 


CHAPTER  VI. 


GOOD  NEWS. — THOUGHTS  OF  THE  FUTURE. — WOMAN’S  INFLUENCE 
OVER  WOMAN. 


Lady  Ida’s  only  condition  of  waiting  for  news  from  Italy  was 
so  natural,  that  her  cousins  did  not  utter  one  word  of  entreaty 
more,  hut  amused  themselves  by  anticipating  all  the  delights 
they  were  predetermined  to  enjoy.  Arthur  waylaid  the 
postman  every  evening.  Emily  commenced  reading  Scott’s 
Life  of  Napoleon  ; whether  balls,  tableaux,  and  charades, 
fashionable  costume,  and  a new  set  of  jewels  presented  to  her 
by  her  cousin  Ida  for  Mrs.  Oakland’s  grand  assembly,  ever 
floated  on  the  pages,  till,  by  an  Arabian  transformation,  Scott 
seemed  to  write  of  them,  and  not  of  heroes  and  battles,  we 
will  not  pretend  to  say ; but  certain  it  is.  Lady  Ida’s  quiet 
smile  at  Emily’s  new  study  appeared  to  doubt  the  good  effects 
which  might  accrue  from  it.  Florence  evinced  no  unusual 
excitement,  but  there  was  a bright  glitter  in  her  dark  eye,  a 
laughter  on  her  lip,  w^henever  Emily  alluded  to  the  ball,  which 
said  she  enjoyed  its  anticipation  quite  as  much  as  her  more 
noisy  companions.  The  Honourable  Miss  Melford  drew  herself 
up,  and  looked  solemn,  and  declared,  Ida  might  talk,  and 
Emily  make  herself  a fool,  but  nothing  would  come  of  it. 
Miss  Sophia  looked  at  her  pretty  face  and  person,  in  a large 
pier  glass,  about  six  times  more  often  than  usual  in  the  course 
of  every  day,  and  allowed,  that  a ball  would  be  very  agreeable, 
and  tableaux  still  more  so  ; and  Emily  enjoyed  a hearty  fit  of 
laughter,  in  spite  of  Lady  Ida’s  reproaches  and  Florence’s 
entreaties,  at  catching  her  sister  one  day  hunting  out  a variety 
of  dresses,  and  practising  various  graceful  attitudes  for  the 
different  characters  she  might  be  called  upon  to  personate. 


30 


woman’s  friendship. 


The  long-desired  letters  came,  at  length,  and  were  so  much 
more  than  usually  satisfactory,  that  Lady  Ida  felt  her  own 
spirits  rise  sufficiently,  even  to  satisfy  Emily  and  Alfred ; who, 
notwithstanding  their  frivolity,  really  loved  her,  and  would 
have  done  much  to  serve  her.  Edmund  St.  Maur  was  so  well, 
that  it  required  all  the  authority  of  his  medical  adviser,  all 
the  persuasion  of  his  mother  to  prevent  his  setting  oS  for 
England  to  fetch  Ida  himself.  He  had  been  told  that  a 
residence  of  four  or  five  years  longer  in  Italy  would  (under  a 
gracious  Providence)  so  effectually  confirm  his  health,  that  he 
might  then,  in  all  probability,  reside  wherever  he  pleased, 
endowed  with  sufficient  physical  strength  to  occupy  that  high 
station  among  the  senators  and  the  literati  of  his  country,  for 
which  he  had,  at  one  time,  so  pined  as  to  increase  the  disorder 
under  which  he  laboured.  A brief  visit  to  England  might  not 
be  hurtful,  but  there  was  a doubt  attached  to  it,  which  Lady 
Helen  could  not  nerve  her  mind  to  meet ; and  while  Edmund 
filled  his  letter  to  his  betrothed  with  eloquent  entreaties  for 
her  only  to  say  the  word,  and  he  would  fly  to  her  side,  in  con- 
tempt of  every  prohibition;  that  his  inability  to  live  in 
England  was  all  a farce  ; why  should  he  banish  his  Ida  from 
her  native  land,  where  she  was  so  fitted  to  shine,  when  he  was 
as  well  and  strong  as  any  of  her  countrymen  ? — while  he 
wrote  thus.  Lady  Helen  besought  her  to  come  to  them  at  once, 
by  her  presence,  her  affection,  to  retain  him  in  Italy,  to  control 
those  passionate  aspirations  after  fame,  which  he  was  not  yet 
strong  enough  to  bear,  and  which  her  influence  alone  had 
power  to  check. 

Had  these  letters  been  the  only  ones  received,  there  would 
indeed  have  been  much  to  cause  rejoicing,  but  they  were 
mingled  with  alloy,  as  to  how  Lady  Ida  could  reach  Nice  as 
soon  as  inclination  prompted.  Lord  Melford,  irritated,  as  we 
have  seen,  beyond  all  bounds  at  his  niece’s  independent  spirit, 
she  knew  would  not  stir  a step  to  forward  their  meeting,  and 
would  as  soon  think  of  taking  a flight  to  the  moon,  as  of 
accompanying  her  himself  to  Italy ; though  both  his  sons 
declared,  that  were  it  but  etiquette,  they  would  go  with  their 
cousin  themselves,  rather  than  see  her  so  tormented  by  anxiety 
or  delay.  Fortunately  for  Lady  Ida,  the  inheritor  of  her 
father’s  title,  who  had  been  selected  % him  as  her  second 
guardian,  was  a very  different  character  from  Lord  Melford. 
Disapprove  of  the  match  Lord  Edgemere  decidedly  did,  but 


woman’s  friendship. 


31 


only  on  account  of  St.  Maur’s  extremely  precarious  health. 
Lady  Ida’s  constancy  and  independence,  however,  instead  of 
irritating  him,  only  increased  the  warm  admiration  which  her 
character  had  always  excited ; and  he  had  long  determined 
that  he  would  himself  conduct  her  to  Italy,  and  would  give 
her  to  St.  Maur,  from  the  bosom  of  his  own  family. 

Lady  Edgemere  had  always  loved  Ida  as  her  own  child,  and 
received  from  her  the  attentions  of  a daughter ; while  her 
eldest  daughter,  Lady  Mary  Villiers,  was  Ida’s  dearest  and 
most  intimate  friend,  though  nearly  five  years  her  junior. 
This  noble  family  had  never  joined  in  those  persecutions  which 
Emily  Melford  described  as  heaped  upon  Ida  by  every  man, 
woman,  or  child  who  could  claim  relationship  with  her ; an 
exception  perhaps,  because,  though  distantly  connected,  they 
were  scarcely  relations,  and,  being  of  a different  school  to  the 
Melfords,  could  afford  to  admire  Edmund  St.  Maur,  in  spite  of 
his  poverty  and  talent. 

The  same  post,  however,  which  brought  Lady  Ida  such 
blessed  tidings  from  Italy,  also  gave  letters  from  the  Edgemeres, 
announcing  their  intention  of  accepting  Lady  Melford’s 
invitation  to  St.  John’s  for  the  ensuing  Easter,  and  that  the 
period  of  their  visit  to  the  Continent  was  entirely  dependent 
on  Ida’s  will. 

Great,  indeed,  was  the  relief  and  joy  this  information  gave 
to  her  mind ; and  when  the  excitement  of  answering  these 
all-important  epistles  was  over — when  she  had  poured  forth 
her  whole  soul  to  her  betrothed,  peremptorily,  though  with 
inexpressible  tenderness,  forbidding  his  return  to  England ; 
telling  him  that  in  three  months  (perhaps  less)  Lord  Edge- 
mere’s  family  would  be  at  Nice,  and  he  might  chance  to  find 
her  with  them,  never  to  part  from  him  again  in  this  life  ; with 
many  other  breathings  of  that  fond  heart,  too  sacred  for  any 
eye  save  his  to  whom  they  were  addressed — when  she  had 
written  to  Lady  Mary,  in  all  the  confidence  their  mutual 
friendship  demanded,  entreating  her  to  make  haste  down  to 
Devonshire,  as  she  longed  for  some  one  to  whom  she  might 
speak  of  Edmund  and  her  future  pro'^pects,  since  she  felt 
sometimes  as  if  her  spirit  must  ben  ! oeneath  its  weight  of 
grief,  anxiety,  and  now  of  joy,  referring  her  to  her  letter  to 
Lord  Edgemere  concerning  her  wishes  for  speedy  departure — 
when  all  these  weighty  matters  were  arranged,  Ida  had  leisure 
to  remember,  and  inclination  to  perform  her  promise  to  her 


32 


woman’s  friendship. 


cousins ; and  telling  Emily  she  must  take  every  trouble  off 
her  hands,  by  collecting  the  multiplicity  of  invitations  she  had 
received,  and  inviting  every  one  whom  she  ought  to  invite,  she 
gave  her  and  Alfred  carte  blanche  to  arrange,  order,  and  collect 
everything  for  the  furtherance  of  their  wishes,  that  the  ball 
might  be  in  truth  the  recherche,  the  refined,  the  elegant 
reflection  of  all  the  fashion,  grace,  and  dignity  they  were 
pleased  to  attribute  to  herself. 

It  was  marvellous  to  see  how  rapidly  Emily  Melford’s  ennui 
passed  away  before  this  very  delightful  employment,  though 
she  made  so  much  bustle  and  confusion  iii  her  preparations,  as 
greatly  to  annoy  and  torment  her  sister  Georgiana,  who  ima- 
gined herself  far  too  literary  and  wise  to  care  for  such 
frivolous  things  ; besides  which,  it  was  a woeful  falling  off  to 
her  consequence  that  Lady  Ida  had  the  power  of  making  her- 
self so  exceedingly  agreeable  to  the  simple  country  folks,  among 
whom  Miss  Melford  had  reigned  an  oracle,  a star,  brighter  than 
she  had  ever  shone  in  London  : and  worse  still,  it  was  only 
Emily  and  Alfred  with  whom  she  could  quarrel,  for  Ida  was  so 
quiet  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  so  faithful  to  her  own  boudoir  and 
its  refined  amusements,  that  she  looked  in  vain  for  some  annoy- 
ance wherewith  to  charge  her. 

And  where  was  Florence  Leslie  all  this  time  ? Still,  with 
her  parents’  free  and  glad  consent,  lingering  by  the  side 
of  Lady  Ida,  imbibing  improvement,  alike  morally  and 
mentally,  from  lips  to  which  harshness  and  unkindness  were 
such  utter  strangers,  that  the  severest  truths  seemed  sweet,  the 
boldly-uttered  reproof  scarcely  pain  ; but  there  was  a secret 
alloy,  scarcely  acknowledged  even  to  herself,  in  her  brightest 
anticipations.  The  more  her  young  and  most  ardent  affections 
twined  themselves  round  one  whose  notice  would  evince  they 
were  not  despised,  the  more  she  felt  the  truth  of  her  mother’s 
words,  that  it  would  have  been  more  for  her  lasting  happiness 
had  Lady  Ida’s  rank  been  nearer  her  own.  She  had  not  felt 
this  when  thrown,  as  they  were,  so  intimately  together  ; but 
when  she  heard  her  speak  of  the  friends  she  expected,  almost 
all  of  them  of  her  own  rank,  and  dear  from  long  years  of  in- 
timacy, there  would  intrude  the  thought,  what  could  she,  a 
simple  country  girl,  be  to  her,  when  Lady  Ida  was  in  Italy  a 
happy  wife,  or  in  England  surrounded  by  her  own  friends. 
But  though  the  thought  of  the  future  would  sometimes  silently 
and  sadly  shade  the  delight  of  the  present,  she  continued  to 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


33 


rejoice  in  listening  to  her  words,  in  learning  lessons  of  self- 
knowledge  by  the  study  of  Lady  Ida  s higher  cast  of  character, 
and  determined  to  correct  all  those  youthful  weaknesses  and 
failings  of  which  she  became  conscious  in  herself  by  their  total 
exclusion  from  her  friend ; and  the  wish  to  become  more 
worthy  of  regard,  of  esteem,  till  Lady  Ida  could  look  upon 
her  in  the  light  of  a friend,  not  merely  as  an  affectionate, 
playful  girl,  scarcely  passed  childhood,  pervaded  her  whole 
Leing. 

It  is  the  fashion  to  deride  woman’s  influence  over  woman, 
to  laugh  at  female  friendship,  to  look  v^ith  scorn  on  all  those 
who  profess  it ; but  perhaps  the  world  at  large  little  knows 
the  effect  of  this  influence — how  often  the  unformed  character 
of  a young,  timid,  and  gentle  girl  may  be  influenced  for  good  or 
evil  by  the  power  of  an  intimate  female  friend.  There  is 
nlways  to  me  a doubt  of  the  warmth,  the  strength,  and  purity 
of  her  feelings,  when  a young  girl  merges  into  womanhood, 
passing  over  the  threshold  of  actual  life,  seeking  only  the  ad- 
miration of  the  other  sex  ; watching,  pining  for  a husband  or 
lovers,  perhaps,  and  looking  down  on  all  female  friendship  as 
romance  and  folly.  No  young  spirit  was  ever  yet  satisfied  with 
the  love  of  nature.  Friendship,  or  love,  gratifies  self-love  ; 
for  it  tacitly  acknowledges  that  we  must  possess  some  good 
qualites  to  attract  beyond  the  mere  love  of  nature.  Coleridge 
justly  observes — ''that  it  is  well  ordered  that  the  amiable  and 
estimable  should  have  a fainter  perception  of  their  own 
qualities  than  their  friends  have,  otherwise  they  would  love 
themselves.  ” Now,  friendship,  or  love,  permits  their  doing 
this  unconsciously ; mutual  affection  is  a tacit  avowal  and  ap- 
preciation of  mutual  good  qualities — perhaps  friendship  yet 
more  than  love ; for  the  latter  is  far  more  an  aspiration,  a 
passion,  than  the  former,  and  influence  the  permanent  char- 
acter much  less.  Under  the  magic  of  love,  a girl  is  generally 
in  a feverish  state  of  excitement,  often  in  a wrong  position, 
‘deeming  herself  the  goddess,  her  lover  the  adorer ; whereas  it 
is  her  will  that  must  bend  to  his,  herself  be  abnegated  for  him. 

Friendship  neither  permits  the  former  nor  demands  tlie 
latter.  It  influences  silently,  often  unconsciously;  perhaps  its 
power  is  never  known  till  the  year  afterwards.  A girl  who 
•stands  alone  without  acting  or  feeling  friendship,  is  generally 
a cold  unamiable  being,  so  wrapt  in  self  as  to  have  no  room 
for  any  person  else,  except,  perhaps,  a lover,  whom  she  only 

D 


34  woman’s  friendship. 

seeks  and  values,  as  offering  his  devotion  to  that  same 
idol,  self. 

Female  friendship  may  be  abused,  may  be  but  a name  for 
gossip,  letter  writing,  romance,  nay  worse,  for  absolute  evil ; 
but  that  Shakspeare,  the  mighty  wizard  of  human  hearts, 
thought  highly  and  beautifully  of  female  friendship,  we  have 
his  exquisite  portraits  of  Rosalind  and  Celia,  Helen . and  the 
Countess,  undeniable  to  prove  ; and  if  he,  who  could  portray 
every  human  passion,  every  subtle  feeling  of  humanity,  from  the 
whelming  tempest  of  love  to  the  fiendish  influences  of  envy  and 
jealousy  and  hate ; from  the  incomprehensible  mystery  of 
Hamlet  s wondrous  spirit,  to  the  simplicity  of  the  gentle 
Miranda,  the  dove-like  innocence  of  Ophelia,  who  could  be 
crushed  by  her  weight  of  love  but  not  reveal  it ; if  Shakspeare 
scorned  not  to  picture  the  sweet  influence  of  female  friendship, 
shall  women  pass  by  it  as  a theme  too  tame,  too  idle  for  their- 
pens.  A late  work,  though  of  the  lightest  novel  kind,  has 
powerfully  shown  the  fearful  evil  that  may  be  accomplished  by 
wwian  upon  woman.  Our  simple  tale  will  prove  the  good. 
How  consoling  and  how  beautiful  may  be  woman’s  mission,’^ 
even  unto  woman. 

There  was  not  a particle  of  selfishness  in  Florence  Leslie’s 
feelings,  for  at  the  very  moment  she  wept  in  secret  over  her 
own  fast-fading  joys,  she  rejoiced  with  the  most  unfeigned 
pleasure  that  Lady  Ida’s  term  of  anxiety  was  drawing  to  a 
close,  and  could  she  in  any  way  have  hastened  her  meeting 
with  Edmund  St.  Maur,  she  would  have  done  so  gladly. 

Still  the  idea  of  a ball,  and  given  by  Lady  Ida,  and  yet  more, 
that  her  taste,  simple  as  it  v/as,  had  been  more  than  once  con-- 
suited  and  even  followed  in  the  decoration  of  rooms,  etc. ; the 
very  fact  that  Lady  Ida  had  asked  her  if  she  would  like  the- 
ball  to  be  given,  before  she  answered  her  cousin’s  entreaties, 
and  evidently  thought  of  her  pleasure  in  so  doing — all  this- 
was  delightful ; and,  in  witnessing  lier  artless,  almost  childish 
effusions  of  joy.  Lady  Ida  felt  as  if  her  consent  to  an  exertion 
for  which  she  had  very  little  inclination  was  amply  repaid. 


CHAPTER  VIL 


HOME  DUTIES. — All  ANXIOUS  THOUGHT. — THE  BALL  DBESS. 


The  invitations  for  Lady  Ida’s  ball  were  despatched,  giving  full 
four  weeks’  notice ; and  no  little  amusement  did  Alfred  and 
Emily  Melford  promise  themselves,  in  quizzing  the  heterogene- 
ous mass  of  quality,  real  and  affected,  whom  they  should  suc- 
ceed in  mustering  together.  In  vain  did  Lady  Ida  remon- 
strate against  this  flippancy,  declaring  that  all  whom  they  had 
invited  sliould  receive  tlie  same  courtesy  as  titled  guests.  Her 
cousins  would  have  their  joke. 

About  a w^eek  after  the  invitations  had  been  issued,  Lady 
Ida  received  a note  from  Florence,  stating  that  her  mother  had 
had  an  unusually  severe  attack  of  illness,  and  though  she  trusted 
all  danger  would  pass  away,  as  it  had  often  done  before,  she 
dared  not  hope  to  take  any  part  in  the  intended  amusements. 
Trusting  that  Florence’s  natural  anxiety  had  magnified  her 
fears.  Lady  Ida  answered  this  note  in  person  ; and  though  she 
could  not  succeed  in  making  the  young  girl  hopeful  as  herself, 
her  kindly  sympathy  so  far  roused  her  drooping  energies  as  to 
check  the  indulgence  of  sorrow,  to  which  she  was  perhaps  too 
naturally  prone,  and  made  her  feel  no  longer  incapacitated 
from  serving  as  well  as  watching  the  beloved  invalid. 

“ Your  mother  will  do  so  well,  dearest  Florence,  I shall  still 
have  you  to  dance  at  my  ball,”  was  Lady  Ida’s  playful  fare- 
well, after  no  short  visit ; but  Florence  answered,  wdth  a 
mournful  shake  of  tlie  head — 

‘‘  Oh  no,  I do  not  think  of  it.  If  mamma  is  well  enough  to 
admit  even  the  possibility  of  my  coming,  it  will  be  quite 
happiness  enough.  Besides,”  she  added,  with  a deep  blush,. 

D 2 


36 


WOMANS  FRIENDSHIP. 


but  unable  to  control  her  own  ingenuousness,  I am  not  like 
you,  Lady  Ida  ; I am  my  own  sempstress  on  such  occasions ; 
and  I have  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  give  to  such  things 
now/’ 

Lady  Ida  kissed  her  blushing  cheek,  and  simply  saying, 
You  are  a dear- truthful  girl,  Florence,  and  need  not  blush  so 
prettily  about  it,”  departed. 

Days  passed,  and  Mrs.  Leslie  slowly  rallied ; but  Florence 
remained  true  to  her  own  unselfish  nature.  She  nursed  her 
mother,  cheered  her  father ; wrote  all  the  letters  to  Walter, 
that  he  might  not  be  anxious,  and  superintended  Minie’s 
studies;  so  that  the  economy  of  their  small  but  happy  house- 
hold should  go  on  the  same.  And  often  did  her  father  press  - 
her  to  his  bosom,  and  declare  she  was  indeed  a comfort  to 
them  all.  There  was  at  such  times  that  peculiar  expression  of 
sweet  though  mournful  satisfaction  on  Mrs.  Leslie  s features 
which  we  have  before  noticed  ; and  Florence  would  have 
wondered  had  she  witnessed  the  agitation  of  her  mother  as 
Mr.  Leslie,  on  her  leaving  the  room,  bent  over  the  invalid’s 
couch,  and  whispered  fondly,  ''I  have  indeed  secured  a treasure 
in  listening  to  your  request,  my  best  beloved.  Oh,  that  our 
own  Minie  may  walk  in  her  paths,  and  give  us  equal 
comfort.” 

Mrs.  Leslie  only  pressed  his  hand  convulsively,  and  seemed 
imploring  him  by  her  looks  not  to  give  utterance  to  the 
thought,  however  precious  it  might  be. 

Nay,  you  are  too  morbidly  sensitive  on  this  point,  love,” 
he  replied.  I wish  I could  understand  your  fear,  and  so 
soothe  and  remove  it.” 

You  cannot,  Edward,”  was  the  agitated  reply ; it  is  pecu- 
liarly a woman’s.  You  think  of  our  sweet  Florence  as  she  is 
to  us,  to  Walter,  to  Minie — to  all  of  whom,  as  a child,  she 
associates ; but  my  fears  look  beyond.  She  must  love  ; she 
may  be  loved,  sought,  asked  for ; and  can  we,  dare  we,  permit 
her  to  enter  the  solemn  engagement  of  marriage  without 
revealing — ” 

Wait  till  the  evil  comes,”  interrupted  her  husband,  affec- 
tionately kissing  her.  I have  no  such  fearful  apprehensions ; 
and,  even  in  such  an  alternative,  would  act  as  I do  now, 
conscientiously  believing  there  would  be  more  virtue  in  so 
doing  than  in  condemning  one  so  pure  and  good  to  suffering 
and  misery,  which  the  truth,  however  softened,  must  produce.” 


woman’s  fhiendship. 


37 


The  day  before  the  eventful  Thursday,  Mr.  Leslie  observed 
to  his  daughter,  as  he  was  going  out  after  breakfast,  Your 
mother  is  so  much  better,  my  dear  girl.  You  will  go  with  me 
to  Lady  Ida’s  ball,  will  you  not  ?” 

I cannot,  dear  papa.” 

'‘But  I am  sure  your  mother  would  prefer  having  only 
Minie  for  a companion  for  a few  hours,  than  that  you  should 
lose  so  great  a pleasure.” 

“ I know  she  would,  papa.  Mine  is  quite  a feminine  reason, 
so  pray  do  not  laugh  at  me.  I have  no  proper  dress,  and  I 
could  not  be  so  disrespectful  to  Lady  Ida  as  to  appear 
plainly  attired.” 

“ But,  my  dear  child,  why  have  you  not  a dress  ?” 

“ Because  I was  too  premature  in  my  preparations,  and  so 
am  punished  for  my  vanity.  I knew  of  this  ball  a full  fort- 
night before  the  invitations  were  given,  and  to  be  quite  ready 
I destroyed  a dress,  that  might  in  an  extremity  have  done,  to 
make  use  of  the  beautiful  lace  which  w^as  on  it  for  another. 
That  other  I have  not  had  time  to  make,  and  so  you  see,  dear 
papa,  I am  compelled  to  stay  at  home.” 

“ But  why  not  get  it  made,  my  Florence  ? Surely  you  do 
not  imagine  I could  grudge  you  such  an  indulgence  ?” 

“ No,  papa.  If  I had  thought  so,  perhaps  I should  have 
been  tempted  to  think  only  of  myself ; but  I knew  I had  but 
to  ask  and  have,  and  so  it  was  easy  not  to  ask.  And  then,  the 
first  fortnight  I really  did  not  think  at  all  about  it ; and  I 
was  still  much  too  anxious  when  I saw  mamma  getting  better. 
I own  I did  wish  it  were  possible  to  have  my  dress  ready,  but 
then  I knew  I could  not  make  it  without  neglecting  Minie  and 
Walter,  and  perhaps  even  mamma ; and  I would  not  expose 
myself  to  such  a temptation.  No,  dear  papa,  I shall  be  much 
happier  at  home  on  Thursday  night  than  going  to  St.  John’s 
with  the  recollection  of  so  many  duties  unperformed.” 

^ “ I quite  believe  you,  my  sweet  child ; but  still  I grieve  you 
did  not  come  to  me.  Did  you  never  think  of  such  a 
thing  ?” 

“ Oh,  yes,  more  than  once  ; but  how  could  I tease  you  with 
such  a trifle  when  you  were  so  anxious  about  mamma  ; and  I 
know  Walter’s  being  from  home  increases  your  expenses  very 
materially  ; and  you  look  so  careworn  sometimes.  Why,  the 
ball  were  not  worth  the  pain  it  would  have  been  for  you  to 
fancy  your  Florence  regardless  of  these  things.” 


38 


■ woman’s  friendship. 


You  are  careful  of  every  one,  everything  but  yourself,  my 
child.  Would  I had  thought  of  this  before,  for  I cannot  bear 
you  should  lose  such  a pleasure.  Is  it  too  late  now  V 

Quite,  quite  too  late,  papa ; so  do  not  be  so  cruel  as  to 
turn  tempter,”  replied  Florence,  smiling  and  throwing  her 
arms  round  his  neck  to  kiss  him  ; then  bounding  from  the 
room  to  conceal  that,  in  spite  of  ail  her  assurances,  in  spite 
even  of  the  still  small  voice  of  conscience  sounding  again  and 
again,  ‘‘You  have  done  3^our  duty,  be  happy  Florence;”  still, 
child  as  she  was  in  feeling,  in  enjoyment  (perhaps  vre  should 
not  say  child,  for  youth  is  far  more  susceptible  of  the  pleasure 
of  life  than  childhood),  Florence  was  disappointed,  and  very 
painfully. 

When  under  the  first  excitement  of  conquering  inclination 
that  duty  should  triumph,  there  is  an  infused  strength  even  in 
trifles  such  as  these  ; but  there  never  yet  was  any  such  self- 
conquest v/hich  was  wholly  joy,  as  some  good  but  cold-hearted 
people  declare.  There  is  generally  a revulsion  of  feeling, 
•occasioning  a doubt  as  to  whether  or  not  we  need  have  acted 
as  we  have  done ; and  then,  as  all  excitement  overstrains  the 
nervous  system,  the  blood  flows  less  equally,  and  affects  us 
mentally,  so  that  depression  and  dissatisfaction  for  a while  too 
often  follow  even  a duty  done.  And  so  it  was  with  our  j^oung 
heroine,  she  felt  all  she  had  told  her  father ; but  now  the 
tormenting  thought  would  come,  that  perhaps  she  could  have 
attended  to  her  duties  and  gone  to  the  ball  also  ; and  that  she 
had  made  a sacrifice,  and  rejoiced  in  her  strength  to  do  so, 
when  there  was  really  no  necessity  for  it.  She  was  weary  too ; 
for  her  mother’s  illness,  and  her  own  multiplied  duties,  had 
prevented  her  customary  daily  walks  and  mental  recreation ; 
and  her  head  ached — that  gnawing,  nervous  jiain,  so  difficult 
to  bear  because  it  is  not  bad  enough  to  complain  of,  or  do 
anything  to  relieve.  And  so  our  poor  Florence  was  weak 
enough,  when  quite  alone,  to  indulge  in  a hearty  fit  of  tears ; 
but  this  was  not  of  long  continuance ; she  very  soon  conquered 
what  she  felt  was  selfish  folly,  and  hastened  down  to  their 
little  study  to  attend  to  her  sister’s  impatient  call,  and  superin- 
tend her  morning  lessons. 

But  Florence  was  not  to  be  steadily  employed  that  day ; 
Lady  Ida  came  to  inquire  after  Mrs.  Leslie  as  usual,  to  in- 
troduce her  particular  friend.  Lady  Mary  Villiers,  to  the  pretty 
cottage  and  its  interesting  inmates,  and  to  carry  off  Florence 


woman’s  friendship. 


39 


for  a drive.  The  pure  fresh  air,  the  beautiful  country,  the 
freedom  from  care,  and,  above  all,  the  intellectual  rest  and 
enjoyment  springing  from  the  society  of  refined  and  accom- 
plished minds — all  did  the  young  girl  good,  and  caused  her  to 
converse  with  her  natural  liveliness  and  attention. 

‘^You  are  right,  Ida;  Miss  Leslie  is  worthy  of  your  interest;, 
even  I allow  it,”  said  Lady  Mary,  when  Florence  left  them ; 
"‘but  I am  sorry  you  have  made  her  love  you,  widely  separated 
-as  you  must  be  in  so  short  a time.” 

“I  am  not  going  to  remain  in  Italy  for  ever,  Mary;  so  why 
should  not  my  interest  in  Florence  continue 

“Because  I have  no  faith  in  an  interest  such  as  this  con- 
tinuing through  time  and  separation.  It  is  not  absence  which 
severs  friends,  but  changes  in  heart,  and  mind,  and  position. 
You  cannot  return  to  England  as  you  leave  it ; you  will  have 
new  ties,  new  interests,  wdiich  must  weaken  former  ones.” 

“ You  believe,  then,  that  absence  is  really  what  some  poet, 
I think,  called  it,  ‘ the  grave  of  love?  ’ ” 

“ No ; but  that  it  is  very  often  the  grave  of  sympathy — 
not  with  those  whose  spheres  of  action  and  position  are  the 
same,  as  ours  are;  but  fancy  you  and  Florence  both  in  London 
a few  years  hence — with  interests,  duties,  occupations,  each  as 
distinct  as  one  planet  from  another.  What  can  you  be  to  her 
but  a source  of  yearning  and  of  pain  ? ” 

“I  cannot  tell  you  at  this  moment,  Mary,  but  time  will 
show.  You  know  I have  many  strange  fancies,  and  one  is  that 
women  do  not  do  half  as  much  as  they  might  do  for  each 
other  ; they  are  too  often  influenced  by  such  petty  jealousies, 
detraction,  envy — things  I abhor.  I may  still  be  Florence’s 
friend,  even  in  London,  and  widely  severed  in  position,  as  you 
say  we  shall  be.  Now  do  not  look  so  solemnly  incredulous  ; 
all  things  are  possible,  if  we  would  but  think  so,  and  exert 
some  degree  of  energy  in  bringing  them  about.” 


CHAPTER  VIIL 


A SURPBISE  FOR  FLORENCE. — THE  GIFT. 


The  eventful  night  at  length  arrived.  Mr.  Leslie,  who  had 
received  an  invitation  from  Lord  Melford  to  dine  with  some 
other  gentlemen  at  St.  John’s,  went ; but  all  his  intended  en- 
joyment was  clouded  because  Florence  could  not  join  him. 
Mrs.  Leslie  was  yet  more  grieved,  reproaching  herself  for  never 
having  thought  what  Florence  might  need  ; forgetting  now 
that  she  was  almost  as  well  as  usual,  all  the  deeply  anxiou& 
thoughts  which  had  engrossed  her,  when  she  anticipated  death 
— anxiety,  not  for  herself,  for  her  trust  was  fixed  on  the  Rock 
of  ages.  But  she  was  a wife  and  mother ; she  knew  her 
husband’s  causes  of  anxiety  almost  better  than  he  did  him- 
self ; and  there  was  one  care,  peculiarly  her  own,  which 
rendered  the  idea  of  death  one  of  intense  suffering ; for  Minie 
and  Walter  it  was  simply  the  thought  of  separation  ; but  for 
Florence,  the  most  incongruous,  the  most  mysterious  emotions 
w^ere  concentrated  in  one  feeling  of  anxious  anguish,  which 
none  but  her  God  could  penetrate  and  soothe. 

With  such  reflections,  united  to  intense  bodily  pain  and 
prostrating  weakness,  it  was  no  matter  of  woiider  that  Lady 
Ida’s  ball  and  the  necessary  arrangements  for  Florence  should 
have  entirely  escaped  her  memory,  till  it  was  too  late  for  the 
evil  to  be  remedied.  The  disappointment  itself  she  knew  was 
of  no  real  consequence ; but  Mrs.  Leslie  was  not  one  of  those 
harshly-nurtured  spirits  who  trample  on  the  sweet  flowers  of 
youthful  life  without  one  remorseful  pang;  she  knew  how  soon, 
how  very  soon  the  lovely  buds  fade  of  themselves ; and  she 


Page  41. 


woman’s  fhiendship. 


41 


trembled  lest  harsher  duties  should  demand  in  Florence  the 
crushing  of  youth  and  all  its  dreams  years  before  their  time. 
And  so  full  of  regret  was  her  caressing  manner  that  evening 
that  Florence,  even  had  she  felt  any  remaining  depression, 
would  have  effectually  concealed  it ; but  the  sweet  reward  of 
duty  was  once  more  her  own,  and  animated  and  gay,  she 
speedily  proved  that  the  sacrifice,  was  absolutely  nothing  when 
compared  to  her  mother  s comfort  and  enjoyment. 

It  was  the  first  evening  Mrs.  Leslie  had  left  her  chamber,, 
and  resumed  her  couch  in  the  sitting-room,  an  event  inexpres- 
sibly cheering  to  Florence,  who  always  declared  the  house  was 
desolate  when  her  mother  was  upstairs.  Once  more  the  sweet 
carol  of  Minie’s  voice  enlivened  the  evening  hours  ; song  after 
song  poured  forth  from  the  child’s  lips,  with  a sweetness,  a 
richness,  a purity  absolutely  thrilling.  It  was  eight  o’clock 
when  they  closed  the  pianoforte,  and  Florence,  petitioning 
a longer  vigil  for  Minie,  opened  Miss  Austin’s  entertaining^ 

Mansfield  Park,”  and  began,  at  her  mother’s  wish,  to  read  it 
aloud. 

They  had  been  thus  employed  about  half  an  hour,  when  a 
carriage  drove  up  to  the  gate,  and  a respectable  old  dame,  who 
had  been  Minie’s  nurse,  and  continued  the  humble  friend  of 
the  family,  bustled  into  the  apartment,  with  a comical  look  of 
pleasant  intelligence,  which  excited  the  curiosity  not  only  of 
the  two  girls,  but  of  Mrs.  Leslie  herself  No  answer  to  the 
varied  queries,  however,  would  Nurse  Wilmot  vouchsafe,  but 
she  deliberately  drew  forth  a note  and  presented  it  to  Florence, 
who,  with  an  exclamation  of  astonishment,  tore  it  open  and 
read  as  follows  : — 

“ Your  father  tells  me,  my  dear  Florence,  that  your  mother 
is  quite  well  enough  for  you  to  leave  her  to-night,  and  I have 
therefore  sent  my  carriage  for  you,  and  must  insist  on  your 
donning  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  coming  just  as  you  are. 
William  has  orders  to  bring  you  to  the  side  entrance,  where 
you  know  a private  staircase  leads  to  my  rooms.  Do  not  be 
frightened  at  the  string  of  carriages  which  may  throng  the 
front  door;  your  path  will  be  quite  invisible.  Go  directly 
into  my  dressing-room,  where  you  will  find  Alice  with  all  the 
necessaries  for  your  toilette,  and  I will  come  for  you  when  it  i& 
completed.  I send  your  dear  old  nurse,  Mrs.  Wilmot,  who 
will  remain  with  your  mother  till  to-morrow  evening,  that  you 


42^ 


■woman’s  feiendship. 


may  leave  her  without  any  apprehension,  for  of  course  you  sleep 
at  the  Hall.  Now  do  not  stay  to  hesitate;  I will  never  forgive 
you  if  you  disobey  me. 

Ida.” 

Necessaries  for  my  toilette  ! "What  can  she  mean?  I have 
not  a single  dress  at  St.  John’s,”  was  the  bewildered  speech  of 
Florence,  as  she  concluded ; and  then,  as  the  real  truth  seemed 
to  flash  upon  her  through  Mrs.  Leslie’s  fond,  rejoicing  look, 
she  threw  her  arm  round  her  mother’s  neck  and  burst  into 
tears.  But  the  wild  delight  of  Minie,  who,  clapping  her  hands 
and  jumping  about  the  room,  insisted  that  Florence  was  very 
foolish  to  cry,  and  make  her  eyes  red,  when  she  ought  only  to 
be  glad,  and  Mrs.  Leslie’s  caressing  sympathy,  soon  removed 
all  trace  of  these  incomprehensible  tears ; and  hastily  shawled 
and  bonneted  by  the  active  care  of  Mrs.  Wilmot,  who  gossiped 
all  the  time  of  the  beautiful  things  she  had  seen  at  St.  John’s, 
where  she  had  been  since  six  o’clock,  and  the  kind  care  of 
Alice,  and  the  affability  of  Lady  Ida,  and  how  kindly  she  had 
spoken  of  Miss  Florence,  with  an  endless  etc.,  Florence  was  soon 
ensconced  in  the  carriage,  and  rolling  rapidly  to  St.  John’s. 
It  seemed  a shorter  ride  than  usual,  for  her  thoughts  were 
very  busy,  and  excessive  timidity  struggled  with  pleasure. 
Alice,  with  provident  kindness,  had  stationed  herself  ready  to 
receive  and  conduct  her  with  all  speed  to  her  lady’s  dressing- 
room. 

True  dignity  was  never  yet  attended  by  insolence  or  pre- 
sumption. Alice  had  been  an  inmate  of  the  late  Lord  Edge- 
mere’s  family  for  above  eight-and-twenty  years,  and  every  year 
increased  her  devotion  for  the  gentle  being  whose  birth  she 
had  witnessed,  and  whom  she  had  tended  from  her  youth.  All 
whom  Lady  Ida  honoured  with  her  regard  became  objects  of 
interest  to  herself. 

Florence  was  speedily  attired  in  the  graceful  robe  of  India 
muslin,  so  transparent  in  its  delicate  texture  as  to  display  the 
pure  white  satin  folds  beneath;  the  tiny  slippers  to  correspond; 
the  delicate  white  glove ; and  every  article  fitted  so  admirably, 
and  made  so  simply,  in  such  perfect  accordance  with  her  age 
and  station,  that  Florence’s  peculiarly  sensitive  mind  could 
only  feel  relieved.  Her  beautiful  hair  received  a new  grace 
from  the  skilful  hand  of  Alice ; a single  white  camellia,  with 
its  drooping  bud,  plucked  fresh  for  the  occasion,  gleamed  like 


woman’s  fkiendship. 


43 


-a  star  amid  those  jetty  tresses  so  purely,  so  freshly  beautiful, 
it  seemed  fit  emblem  of  the  gentle  girl  whom  it  adorned.  A 
chain  of  beautiful  workmanship,  with  its  Sevign6  and  sus- 
pended Maltese  cross,  the  centre  of  which,  as  the  Sevignd,  was 
simply  yet  elegantly  set  with  valuable  emeralds,  was  her  only 
ornament ; and  even  from  this  Florence  sensitively  shrunk, 
asking  kindly,  if  Lady  Ida  particularly  wished  her  to  wear  it. 
She  need  not,  Alice  said,  if  she  did  not  like  : but  as  it  was 
intended  as  a keepsake  from  her  lady  to  Miss  Leslie,  she 
thought  Lady  Ida  would  be  disappointed  if  it  were  not  worn ; 
and  touching  a spring  in  the  cross  as  she  spoke,  a locket  was 
disclosed,  containing  a braid  of  dark  chestnut  hair,  with  the 
letters  ‘‘  F.  L.  from  1.  V.”  delicately  engraved  upon  it.  The 
eyes  of  Florence  again  glistened,  but  she  made  no  further 
objection  to  having  it  secured  round  her  throat,  playfully 
answering  Alice’s  unchecked  admiration  of  her  appearance  by 
the  assurance  that  it  must  be  all  her  care  and  Lady  Ida’s 
kindness  which  had  caused  her  to  look  well,  that  her  own 
proper  self  had  nothing  to  do  with.it  whatever. 

Unconsciously  she  remained  standing  opposite  the  large  pier- 
glass  when  Alice  had  departed,  thinking  far  more  of  the 
kindness  she  received  than  of  her  own  graceful  figure  and 
sweetly-expressive  face,  of  whose  real  charm  she  was  in  truth 
totally  ignorant,  for  she  knew  she  was  not  beautiful ; and  that 
she  possessed  intellect  and  sensibility  enough  to  make  a far 
plainer  face  attractive  was  equally  unknown. 

Well,  Florence,  have  I done  for  you  as  well  as  you  could 
have  done  for  yourself?  ” was  the  playful  address  which  roused 
her  from  her  reverie ; and,  springing  forward,  Florence  could 
only  exclaim,  Oh,  Lady  Ida,  why  are  you  so  kind  ? ” 

Why,  dearest  ? because  it  is  a real  pleasure  to  think  for 
those  who  never  think  for  themselves ; and  just  now,  that  my 
pleasures  are  so  limited,  you  must  not  grudge  me  this.  Now 
do  not  look  at  me  half  sorrowfully,  when  I mean  you  to  be 
the  very  happiest  person  in  the  ball-room  to-night ; you  are  as 
awe-struck  at  my  diamonds  and  satin  robe,  as  you  were  when 
I first  came  dov/n,  because  I was  an  earl’s  daughter.  You  little 
simpleton ; my  rank  may  be  somewhat  higher,  but  what  do  I 
exact  then  ? only  obedience  in  all  things,  even  to  the  keeping 
and  wearing  that  chain  and  cross  for  my  sake,  without 
pride  in  that  haughty  little  spirit  rising  up  against  it.” 

Haughty ! dear  Lady  Ida  ? Do  not  say  so.” 


44 


iyoman’s  friendship. 


‘‘  Indeed  I will,  for  you  know  it  to  be  truth  ; but  come,  far 
I must  not  be  missed  from  the  ball-room.  Emily’s  last  note 
told  you,  did  it  not,  that  the  idea  of  tableaux  was  given  up 
till  another  night,  as  being  incompatible  with  my  uncle’s 
dinner  and  the  ball  ? so  you  see  you  must  play  your  part  still,, 
notwithstanding  you  thought  to  eschew  it  so  nicely.” 

Reassured,  happy  beyond  all  expression,  even  her  timidity 
soothed  by  Lady  Ida’s  caressing  manner,  Florence  laughingly 
replied;  and  they  proceeded  to  the  splendidly-lighted  suite  of 
rooms,  whence  the  alternate  quadrille  and  waltz  were  most 
inspiritingly  sounding.  It  was  the  surpassing  loveliness,  the 
peculiarly  quiet  air  of  real  aristocratic  dignity,  the  absence  of 
all,  even  the  faintest  approach  to  affectation  or  display  in  Lady 
Ida,  which  had  struck  the  eager  heart  of  the  young  Florence 
with  even  more  than  usual  respect,  impressing  her — as  Ida’s 
quick  penetration  had  discovered,  even  at  such  a moment  of 
pleasure — with  the  sorrowful  conviction  how  widely  they  must 
be  eventually  separated  by  their  respective  stations. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


AN  INTRODUCTION. — PRINCIPLE  TRIUMPHS  OVER  INCLINATION. 


As  Lady  Ida  and  her  companion  entered  the  ante-chamber, 
into  which  the  ball-room  opened,  a young  man,  or  rather  lad, 
for  his  open  collar  and  round  jacket  permitted  him  no  higher 
title,  though  an  elegant  figure  and  remarkably  handsome  face 
rendered  him  a general  object  of  attraction,  hastily  pressed 
forward. 

Frank!’’  said  Lady  Ida,  greatly  surprised,  ^Svhy,  where 
have  you  dropped  from  ? I am  really  glad  to  see  you,  and 
to-night  particularly.” 

Your  ladyship  honours  me,”  was  the  buoyant  reply,  with 
a very  graceful  bow.  I only  arrived  two  hours  ago,  and 
found  all  the  hotel  in  commotion  and  excitement,  because  of 
the  Lady  Ida  Villiers’s  ball.  I ventured  on  the  plea  of  old 
acquaintance,  both  with  Lady  Melford  and  yourself,  to  come 
without  invitation.  Am  I excused  ?” 

Excused  and  welcome,  Frank,  as  you  well  know.  Where 
is  your  father 

In  Paris  still ; but  as  it  is  the  season  of  merry  Easter  in 
my  grave  quarters,  I vowed  I Avould  turn  truant,  and  visit  my 
friends  in  England.  After  a struggle  I gained  my  point,  and 
finding  most  of  my  best  friends  in  Devonshire,  followed  them, 
and  here  I am.” 

''And  as  you  have  come  in  a time  of  festivity,  we  shall  all 
be  doubly  glad  to  see  you.  Florence,  will  you  honour  this 
friend  of  mine  for  the  next  quadrille  ? But  I forget  you  do 
not  know  each  other — Miss  Leslie,  Mr.  Francis  Howard.  That 
is  etiquette, — is  it  not  ? Now  be  as  agreeable  as  you  can  be, 
Frank,  in  return  for  Miss  Leslie’s  condescension.” 

The  young  man  laughed  gaily,  seeming  not  at  all  ill  pleased 
with  the  introduction,  his  eyes  having  lingered  admiringly  on 
Florence  all  the  time  he  spoke  to  Lady  Ida. 

"Lady  Melford,”  wLispered  Florence.  " Will  it  not  be  rude 
if  I do  not  seek  her  first  ?” 


46 


woman’s  friendship. 


I will  make  your  excuse.  It  will  be  easier  for  you  to  find 
a place  in  the  quadrille  than  my  aunt  at  present/’  was  the 
reply.  Frank,  bring  Miss  Leslie  to  me  when  your  dance  has 
been  accomplished.” 

How  am  I to  find  your  ladyship  ? — by  a treble  file  of 
cavaliers  devoiies^  suing  your  hand  for  all  the  quadrilles  of  the 
evening  ?” 

‘'No,  you  foolish  boy.  I am  a staid,  sober  matron  for  this 
evening,  not  intending  to  dance  at  all.” 

“Not  dance  !”  exclaimed  young  Howard  and  Florence,  in 
such  genuine  surprise  as  to  excite  Lady  Ida’s  mirth. 

“Not  dance,  my  young  friends.  Now  away  with  you  both, 
for  my  will  is  like  an  ocean  rock,  not  to  be  shaken.” 

Lady  Ida  stood  a moment,  silently  watching  the  effect  that 
Florence  Leslie’s  unexpected  appearance  w^ould  produce ; not 
a little  pleased  that  the  purse-proud  Oakland  family  w^ere 
standing  so  near  as  not  only  to  have  seen  Florence’s  debut^ 
leaning  familiarly  on  her  arm,  but  to  hear  all  that  had  passed, 
even  her  final  command  to  young  Howard  to  bring  Florence  to 
her  after  the  dance. 

“Did  you  hear  that  ?”  whispered  Miss  Maria  to  Miss  Eliza« 
beth.  “ Well  to  be  sure  ! — titled  ladies  are  easily  pleased. 
Who  could  have  thought  of  that  poor  proud  Florence  gettings 
into  such  favour  ? ” 

“And  look,  what  a beautiful  chain  and  cross  she  has,”  was- 
Miss  Elizabeth’s  reply.  “ I did  not  think  her  worth  such  a 
thing ; but  her  dress  ! who  ever  heard  of  any  one  coming  to 
such  a ball  as  this  in  plain  white  muslin  ? But  of  course, 
poor  thing,  she  could  not  afford  anything  better ! ” and  she 
looked  with  yet  greater  satisfaction  on  her  own  amber-coloured 
satin,  flounced  and  furbelowed  to  the  knee. 

An  irresistible  smile  stole  to  Lady  Ida’s  lip  as  these  wLispered 
remarks  reached  her  ear,  half  longing  for  them  to  know  that 
it  was  her  own  much- vaunted  taste  they  were  decrying,  and 
scarcely  able  to  meet  wuth  her  wonted  courtesy  the  eager 
cringing  speeches  with  wLich,  as  she  passed  them,  they  saluted 
her. 

Some,  however,  there  were  who  were  really  glad  to  see 
Florence,  and  amiable  enough  to  forgive  the  favour  she 
enjoyed ; nay  more,  to  remark  how  well  she  looked,  and  ta 
witness  without  envy  Emily  Melford’s  joyous  greeting,  and  ta 
see  the  young  men  of  the  Hall  approach  with  eagerly  extended 


woman’s  friendship. 


47 


hand,  and  claim  her  successively  as  their  partner  ; while 
others  lost  half  the  pleasure,  the  triumph  of  being  invited 
by  Lady  Ida  Villiers  to  a ball  because  Florence  Leslie  was 
there  too,  and  evidently  in  high  favour.  Alas  ! for  poor 
human  nature. 

'AVill  you  come  with  me,  Mr.  Leslie?  I have  a lovely 
flower  I want  to  show  you,”  said  Lady  Ida,  playfully,  laying 
her  liand  on  that  gentleman’s  arm  as  he  stood  talking  with  her 
uncle  and  other  gentlemen,  at  some  distance  from  the  dancers. 

‘‘Willingly,”  he  replied,  observing,  as  he  offered  her  his 
arm,  that  he  thought  the  conservatory  lay  in  an  opposite 
direction. 

“ So  it  does,  my  dear  sir  ! but  it  is  not  your  love  of  flowers 
I am  going  to  gratify  just  now"  ; unless  you  can  And  any 
charm  in  a white  camellia  wreathed  in  a fair  maiden’s  hair  ! 
The  flower  I mean  has  just  accepted  Frederic’s  arm.  Do  you 
know  her  ? Or  shall  I introduce  you  ?” 

“ Florence  !”  exclaimed  the  delighted  father,  in  a tone  that 
gratified  all  Lady  Ida’s  benevolent  intentions  most  completely. 
“And  looking  so  well — so  happy  ! What  magic  has  your 
ladyship  used  ? ” 

“ Wait  till  I give  you  Florence  back  again  : I intend  to  tell 
3^11  nothing  nowg  nor  will  I permit  her.  It  is  enough  you  are 
satisfied  that  my  power  is  more  efficient  than  you  thought. 
You  may  greet  your  father,  Florence,  but  that  is  all  I permit 
now,”  she  added  gaily,  as,  escorted  both  by  Frederic  Melford 
and  Frank  Howard,  Florence  hastily  approached. 

“ Ida  ! what  can  you  want  with  Miss  Leslie  ? If  you  are  so 
determined  not  to  dance,  at  least  lay  no  prohibition  on  her ; 
but  here  is  Frank — troublesome  fellow — will  not  give  her  up 
to  me  till  he  has  given  her  back  to  you ; and  she  sa3"s  she 
cannot  till  she  has  spoken  with  my  mother.” 

“ W^ll,  I promise  you  I will  not  detain  her  long.  Go,  and 
pay  your  devoirs  to  some  other  lady,  and  come  back  for  her 
after  the  next  dance.  There  is  a waltz,  fortunately  for  you  ; 
so  since  Florence  does  not  waltz,  you  can  spare  her.” 

“The  next,  then — remember,  Miss  Leslie?”  Florence  laugh- 
ingly assented. 

“And  after  Melford  and  his  brother,  may  I claim  again  ?’^ 
asked  young  Howard,  earnestl}^ 

“ I believe  I am  engaged.” 

“The  next,  then?” 


AS 


woman’s  friendship. 


Florence  assented  \vith  a bright  smile.  Howard  bowed  and 
retreated. 

What ! yon  will  have  such  compassion  on  Frank’s  round 
jacket  and  open  collar,  as  to  honour  him  twice,  when  so  many 
dress-coats  are  round  you,  Florence  ? You  really  are  a novice. 
Emily  Avould  abuse  your  bad  taste,”  laughingly  observed  Lady 
Ida. 

Oh,  he  is  so  agreeable  ; he  knows  so  much  about  Paris 
and  Italy — dear  Italy  ! Besides,  indeed,  I scarcely  think 
about  my  partners,  dancing  is  so  delightful  in  itself ; though 
'Certainly,  when  they  are  so  pleasant  as  Mr.  Howard  and  your 
cousins,  it  is  more  delightful  still” 

''And  so  you  forgive  the  round  jacket  ?” 

"Because  it  is  the  only  part  of  the  boy  about  him.” 

"I  admire  your  discrimination  ; he  is  much  more  worth 
talking  to  than  many  double  his  age.  His  father,  Lord 
Glenville,  is  a strange,  stern  man,  and  I often  pity  Frank’s 
domestic  trials  ; but  his  gay  spirit  carries  him  through  them 
all,  and  he  is  happy  in  spite  of  them.” 

Lady  Melford  received  her  most  kindly,  making  many 
inquiries  after  her  mother,  which  enabled  Florence  to  overcome 
the  dif&dence  she  felt,  as  she  encountered  so  many  inquiring 
glances,  not  from  Lady  Melford’s  resident  guests  alone,  but  of 
many  proud  families  in  the  neighbourhood,  who  generally 
passed  her  with  very  sapercilious  notice.  The  benevolent 
countenance  of  Lady  Edgemere  attracted  her  at  once,  and  so 
pleased  was  she  with  that  lady’s  flattering  notice  and  en- 
couraging conversation,  that  she  was  almost  sorry  when 
Frederic  Melford  came  to  claim  her. 

" So  you  will  not  follow  Mary’s  example,  Ida  ? On  1113^ 
honour,  I feel  inclined  to  scold  you  even  now,”  said  Lord 
Edgemere,  in  a latter  part  of  the  evening,  as  cavalier  after 
cavalier  approached  his  former  ward,  entreating  her  to  dance, 
and  each  received  the  same  courteous  but  firm  reply.  " All 
my  powers  of  orator3g  Mary’s  of  persuasion.  Lady  Edgemere’s 
of  argument,  your  uncle’s  of  satire,  your  aunt’s  of  irritation, 
your  cousin’s  of  torment — have  all  been  exhausted  in  vain. 
You  laugh  at  my  lengthy  catalogue — how  unfeeling,  triumphing 
over  this  waste  of  breath  ! Ida,  what  a report  I will  write  to 
Edmund  ! Now,  there  is  the  smile  vanished,  as  if  his  very 
name  demanded  the  banishment  of  joy.  You  little  incompre- 
hensible enigma,  when  shall  I solve  you?” 


woman’s  friendship. 


49 


not  his  name  solve  my  reason  for  not  dancing?” 
inquired  Lady  Ida,  in  a voice  so  low  and  quivering,  that  Lord 
Edgemere,  even  while  he  answered  jestingly,  pressed  the 
delicate  hand  which  rested  on  his  arm. 

''  Truly  it  will  not,  for  Edmund  loved  to  watch  your  grace- 
ful movements  in  the  dance,  even  when  he  could  not  join  in 
it  himself.” 

''And  while  I am  dancing,  listening,  perhaps,  to  a dozen 
unmeaning  speeches,  attracting  the  attention  of  every  eye, 
because,  of  course,  as  Lady  Ida  Villiers,  I might  not  hope 
to  go  through  a crowded  quadrille  unremarked — he  maybe  ill, 
and  in  lonely  sorrow,  the  void  in  his  faithful  heart  unfilled,, 
even  by  his  most-loved  studies,  dreaming  of  me,  and  my 
promise  to  be  his  alone  ! and  should  I be  fulfilling  this  promise, 
attracting  the  notice,  the  applause  of  a crowd?  Oh,  Lord 
Edgemere,  is  it  strange  that  I cannot  dance  ? ” She  spoke 
with  strong,  though  suppressed  emotion,  and  Lord  Edgemere 
at  once  entered  into  her  feelings.  Quickly  recovering,  she 
said,  cheerfully,  "You  will  ask  me,  with  these  feelings, 
why  I gave  the  ball  at  all  ? Because  I could  not  bear  to  be  so 
selfish  as  to  refuse  Emily  such  a trifle  ; and  those  who  paid  me 
such  continued  attention  certainly  demanded  some  return.” 

" You  have  done  very  wisely,  my  dear  Ida.  To  conciliate 
is  so  infinitely  more  agreeable  than  to  offend,  that  it  is  worth 
some  sacrifice  of  individual  will.  You  have  gratified  many ; 
soothed  perhaps  offended  pride ; given  scope  to  kindly 
feelings — ” 

" I fear  to  unamiable  ones,  too,”  interposed  Lady  Ida. 

" Perhaps  so  ; for  when  was  there  a ball  whose  ordeal  every 
one  could  pass  unscathed  ? Yet  still  there  appears  to  me  a 
larger  share  of  happiness  in  these  rooms  than  in  some  of  our 
crowded  assemblies  in  London.  I am  sure,  if  ever  face  spoke 
truth,  there  is  one  person  perfectly  happy;  look  at  Miss  Leslie 
now.” 

In  the  midst  of  a gay  throng  Florence  was  standing, 
listening,  and  sometimes  joining  in  the  merry  conversation  of 
Ernily  Melford  and  her  attendant  beaux,  with  such  sparkling 
animation  lighting  up  every  feature  that  it  was  impossible  to 
pass  her  unremarked.  Just  at  the  moment  that  Lord  Edge- 
mere  had  directed  Lady  Ida’s  attention  towards  her,  one  of 
Strauss’s  most  inspiring  waltzes  struck  up,  and  several  couples, 
were  instantly  formed. 


50 


woman’s  priendship. 


Come,  Florence,  one  turn — only  one;  have  pity  on  Alfred, 
who  has  been  asking  yon  so  long;  and  he  is  no  stranger.  You 
may  waltz  with  him,”  entreated  Emily,  ere  she  departed  with 
her  partner,  and  her  brother  was  not  slow  to  follow  up  the 
hint. 

You  really  must  waltz.  Miss  Leslie  ; it  will  be  a treat  to 
have  a genuine  lover  of  dancing  to  waltz  with.  You  say  you 
love  dancing,  and  yet  not  waltz  ; indeed  you  do  not  know 
what  dancing  is — ask  Emil}^ — ask  Lady  Mary.” 

Will  she  stand  firm  ?”  wMspered  Lord  Edgemere  to  his 
companion,  as  Florence,  shrinking  back,  entreated  to  be 
excused,  resisting  even  Emily’s  declaration,  that  she  did  not 
know  how  ridiculous  she  appeared  refusing  to  do  what  every- 
body else  did. 

You  know  you  can  waltz,  Florence,”  she  persisted,  and 
much  better  than  I do.” 

Then  it  is  not  incapacity.  Miss  Leslie  ; indeed  you  have 
no  excuse.  Is  not  that  music  enough  to  inspire  you — even 
were  you  fainting  with  fatigue  ?” 

Indeed  it  is ; and  I assure  you  I am  not  in  the  least 
fatigued.  I own  I have  waltzed  in  sport  very  often,  but  not 
here — not  now  indeed — indeed,  Mr.  Melford,  you  must  excuse 
me.” 

But  why,  Florence  ? I assure  you  it  is  quite  an  English 
dance  now.  There  is  not  the  least  shadow  of  harm  in  it,” 
interposed  Lady  Mary.  But  Florence  was  firm,  and  carried 
her  point,  although  Alfred  Melford  declared  he  would  leave 
her  alone  as  a punishment,  as  a post  for  the  waltzers,  instead 
of  taking  her  to  a chaperon  ; and  he  knew  she  would  not  have 
eourage  to  go  by  herself. 

"^You  will  do  no  such  thing,  Alfred;  for  Florence  is  my 
charge,  and  I am  here  to  redeem  it,”  interposed  Lady  Ida, 
coming  forward  ; and  Florence  clung  to  her  arm  with  such  an 
expression  of  relief  that  young  Melford  laughed  immoderately, 
a laugh  in  which  he  was  joined  as  gaily  by  herself. 

Oh,  if  Ida  upholds  you  in  your  perverseness.  Miss  Florence, 
there  is  no  hope;  so  I will  make  my  parting  bow,  and  vanish,” 
he  said,  and  darted  off  to  join  the  waltzers  with  some  less 
scrupulous  partner. 

''  I give  you  joy  of  5mur  conquest.  Miss  Leslie,”  said  Lord 
Edgemere,  smiling  kindly.  ''If  incapacity  and  subsequent 
real  disinclination  had  incited  your  firmness,  you  would  have 


woman’s  friendship. 


51 


acliieved  no  conquest  at  all ; but  when  principle  triumphs  over 
inclination,  I honour  it,  even  in  such  a small  thing  as  a 
waltz.” 

Florence  blushed  deeply,  but  not  with  pain  ; wondering 
how  Lord  Edgemere  could  so  exactly  have  divined  the  truth 
— for  no  true  lover  of  dancing  (if  such  a person  in  these  days 
of  art  can  be  found)  ever  yet  listened  to  an  inspiring  waltz, 
without  the  longing  desire  to  join  in  it. 

Do  you  waltz,  Lady  Ida  ?”  she  asked. 

‘^Not  very  often;  I have  done  so  when  it  would  have 
seemed  greater  affectation  to  refuse,  than  love  of  display  tc 
do  so.  But  I am  not  very  fond  of  it ; it  is  an  exercise  too 
exciting,  too  absorbing,  ever  to  be  a favourite  amongst  genuine 
English  women;  and  with  your  passionate  love  of  dancing 
Florence,  you  are  right  to  resist  all  persuasions,  and  not  waltz. 
All  Emily’s  sage  resolutions  to  that  effect  have,  I perceive, 
melted  into  air.  I am  glad  you  are  firmer.” 

Florence  was  satisfied. 

To  enter  into  all  the  delights  of  the  ball  would  be  im- 
possible. Suffice  it  that  to  far  the  greater  number  within 
those  halls  it  was  perfect  enjoyment.  Nothing  seemed 
wanting  : even  the  most  exacting  were  satisfied,  nay  charmed 
with  the  attention  they  received  from  their  distinguished 
hostess. 

Lady  Ida  left  her  memory  as  a bright  star  in  the  hearts  of 
every  one  present,,  various  as  were  their  dispositions,  their 
characters,  and  feelings.  ‘'What  availed  such  ‘golden  opinions’ 
from  those  she  might  never  meet  again  ? ” the  sceptic  and  the 
selfish  may  demand.  Little  in  actual  deed  ; but  much,  much 
in  that  account  where  the  smallest  act  of  kindness  and  bene- 
volence is  registered  for  ever. 

Pleasures,  however  transporting,  unhappily  cannot  last.  No 
chain — be  it  of  gold,  or  pearl,  or  flowers— can  bind  the 
stubborn  wings  of  Time,  and  bid  him  loiter  on  his  way.  He 
spurns  the  fetter,  darkly,  sternly  rushing  on.;  and  bright 
indeed  must  be  the  joys  which  fade  not  beneath  his  step.  The 
festive  scene  at  length  closed.  Not  indeed  till  the  blue  ligh 
of  morning  struggled  to  regain  dominion  over  the  earth. 
-Carriage  after  carriage  rolled  from  the  gates,  bearing  ivitli 
them  for  the  most  part  memories  of  pleasure  oft  recalled  with 
a sigh ; until,  at  last.  Lord  Melford’s  family  and  their  resident 
.guests  remained  sole  occupants  of  St.  John’s. 

E 2 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


CHAPTER  X. 


SEPARATION. — THE  CLOUD  GATHERS. — A CHARACTER  TO  BE 
REMEMBERED. 


Relieving  with  the  wise  personage  who  wrote,  said,  or  left  a& 
legacy  the  sage  adage  that 

‘‘Trifles make  the  sum  of  human  life,” 

and  also,  that  it  is  in  trifles,  infinitely  clearer  than  in  great 
deeds,  that  the  actual  character  is  displayed,  we  have  lingered, 
perhaps  too  long,  on  the  first  part  of  our  narrative,  hoping, 
that  our  readers  may  feel  some  interest  in,  and  judge  somewhat 
of  the  character  of,  our  youthful  heroine ; destined,  ere  the 
sober  grey  of  life  came  on,  to  figure  in  widely  different  scenes. 

The  perfect  happiness  of  Florence,  she  herself  knew,  must 
very  soon  he  clouded  ; and  she  roused  every  unselfish  feeling 
of  her  nature  to  save  her  from  weak  repining  or  fretful  regret. 
Early  in  May,  Lord  Melford  s family  were  to  quit  St.  John’s. 
This,  though  a privation  (for  Florence  liked  Emily,  in  spite  of 
the  wide  dissimilarity  of  their  characters  and  tastes),  was  one 
easily  borne,  compared  to  the  severer  trial  awaiting  her  in  the 
departure  of  Lord  Edgemere’s  party  towards  the  end  of  April,, 
taking  Lady  Ida  Villiers  with  them. 

Remember,  Florence,  if  it  should  happen  that  in  anything 
you  need  me,  if  my  friendshij)  or  influence  can  be  of  any 
service  to  you,  write  to  me  without  scruple,”  had  been  Lady 
Ida’s  parting  address,  in  a tone  of  sincerity  which  Florence 
never  forgot.  ''  You  are  very  young,  but  with  such  a mother 
your  character  will  not  change  ; and  if  I meet  again  the 
Florence  Leslie  whom  I leave,  trust  me  you  will  find  me  still 
the  same,  however  the  kind  world  may  tell  you  that  our 
respective  ranks  place  an  insuperable  barrier  between  us.” 

Florence  had  tried  to  smile,  but  found  the  effort  vain. 

i 


woman’s  friendship. 


53 


Lady  Ida  departed — and  oh  ! how  sad  and  lonely  did  every 
pursuit  and  pleasure  for  a brief  while  seem.  But  she  had 
gone  to  happiness  ; and  though,  when  Florence  received  a few 
hurried  lines  from  her,  telling  her  she  was  on  the  eve  of 
quitting  England,  and  in  a very  few  weeks  expected  to  join 
Mr.  St.  Maur,  who  was  already  at  Nice,  the  consciousness  of 
the  many  miles  of  sea  and  land  dividing  them  pressed  heavily 
on  her  affectionate  heart,  she  could  and  did  rejoice  that  the 
time  of  probation  was  at  an  end,  and  Lady  Ida  might  indeed 
be  happy  with  him  whom  she  so  faithfully  and  devotedly 
loved. 

From  Emily  Melford,  who  was  her  constant  correspondent, 
she  heard  all  further  particulars  of  the  happy  termination  of 
the  voyage  and  journey;  and  next  of  her  marriage,  for 
St.  Maur  was  so  wonderfully  recovered  there  was  no  occasion 
for  further  delay ; and  then,  by  degrees,  of  their  fixing  their 
residence  for  some  few  years  in  a beautiful  villa  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Borne,  and  that  they  were  as  happy  as 
mortals  might  be. 

Not  long  after  Lady  Ida  left  Devonshire,  some  changes  took 
place  in  Florence  Leslie  s domestic  life,  which  must  not  be 
passed  unnoticed.  We  have  said  or  hinted  that  Mr.  Leslie 
was  not  a rich  man  ; nay,  for  the  rank  which  his  birth  and 
education  entitled  him  to  fill,  he  was  decidedly  poor.  Some 
few  months  before  Lady  Ida  came  to  Devonshire,  a friend  had 
brought  to  his  recollection  a long-neglected  lawsuit,  which 
had  been  commenced  by  the  grandfather  of  Mr.  Leslie  for  the 
recovery  of  an  estate,  which  it  was  generally  supposed  had 
been  alienated  from  the  family  by  some  chicanery  of  the 
supposed  heir  and  his  lawyer. 

WiUiam  Leslie,  the  person  then  concerned,  died,  before 
much  more  than  preliminaries  had  been  arranged.  His  son, 
an  easy  country  gentleman,  satisfied  with  the  moderate 
fortune  he  possessed,  never  even  examined  the  papers  left  to 
his  charge,  leaving  his  son,  at  his  death,  if  not  affluent,  at 
least  a comfortable  competence.  With  the  present  Mr.  Leslie, 
however,  business  had  been  unfortunate  ; and  he  retired  to 
Devonshire,  in  compliance  with  the  wishes  of  his  wife,  to 
economise,  till  Walters  dawning  manhood  might  require  their 
home  to  be  in  London. 

He  had  sometimes  heard  his  father  speak  of  an  estate  which 
ought  to  be  their  own,  but  regarded  it  little,  until  just  before 


54 


WOMAN  S TRIENDSHIP. 


the  opening  of  our  tale.  The  estate  became  again  without  a. 
master,  and  many  old  friends  of  Mr.  Leslie  urged  his  putting 
forth  his  claims,  as  well  as  those  of  the  supposed  heir-at-law. 
Mr.  Leslie  was  so  far  ambitious,  that  for  the  interest  of  his 
children  he  would  have  done  and  risked  much ; and  eagerly 
seeking  the  long-forgotten  papers,  he  employed  himself 
actively  in  looking  for  a lawyer  of  sufficient  skill  and  probity, 
to  undertake  the  delicate  business.  In  vain  Mrs.  Leslie,  far 
more  clear-sighted  than  himself,  entreated  him  to  forego 
his  claims.  It  appeared  to  her,  from  the  papers  of  the  former 
lawsuit,  which  she  had  attentively  perused,  that  their  claims 
were  not  merely  remote,  but  unfounded ; or,  at  least,  not  so 
well  authenticated  and  proved  as  to  ensure  success.  She 
reminded  him  of  the  expense  which  the  carrying  on  the  suit 
must  occasion ; she  entreated  him  with  all  the  eloquence  of 
affection,  to  remain  contented  with  their  present  mode  of  life. 
They  were  not  like  others,  absolutely  dependent  on  exertion 
or  some  lucky  chance  for  sufficiency.  They  needed  economy 
for  a few  years,  certainly  ; but  they  had  capital,  which,  if  not 
drained  by  unnecessary  calls,  would  amply  provide  for  their 
daughters,  and  settle  Walter  in  business,  where  he  might  carve 
out  his  own  fortune  ; a far  happier  lot  than  awaited  those  to 
whom  fortune  descended  without  exertion,  or  ambition  of  their 
own.  Mr.  Leslie  might  have  been  convinced  had  there  not  been 
those  troublesome  meddlers,  misnamed  friends,  who  spoke  of 
henpecked  husbands,  and  the  egregious  folly  of  having  com- 
petence and  wealth  and  distinction  awaiting  them,  yet  failing 
in  the  mental  courage  and  independent  spirit  for  the  exertion 
necessary  to  obtain  them. 

These  arguments  had  a powerful  advocate  in  Mr.  Leslie’s- 
own  inclination.  There  was  much,  he  felt  convinced,  in  his 
son  beyond  what  met  the  common  eye,  and  he  shrunk  from 
binding  him  to  mere  mechanical  employment;  for  him,  beyond 
even  the  interest  of  his  daughters,  he  longed  for  w^ealth,  that 
Walter’s  uncommonly-gifted  mind  might  have  scope  to  develop 
itself,  and  that  those  higher  spheres  of  employment  to  which 
his  inclination  prompted  might  be  pursued,  without  the  cold 
and  sordid  calculations  which  inevitably  attend  mere  com- 
petence. 

There  was  much  in  these  considerations  nearly  and  sadly  to 
affect  Mrs.  Leslie.  Yet  she  urged  that,  economically  as  they 
at  present  lived,  this  same,  end  might  still  be  accomplished 


woman’s  miENDSHIP. 


55 


entreating  him  to  recollect-  that  Walter’s  interests  might  be 
far  more  irretrievably  wrecked  by  the  loss  of  the  suit,  and  its 
attendant  heavy  drains  on  their  little  capital.  But  Mr.  Leslie 
never  dreamed  of  loss.  He  felt  so  convinced  in  his  own  mind 
of  the  justice  of  his  claims,  so  fully  persuaded  that  all  the 
necessary  expenses  would  be  but  as  dust  in  the  balance  com- 
pared to  the  possession  of  a rich  and  unincumbered  estate, 
that  he  laughed  aside  all  her  fears,  declaring  that  the  papers 
had  been  examined  by  an  exceedingly  clever  lawyer,  and  pro- 
nounced as  quite  sufficient  to  authorize  his  claims,  and  in  his 
bauds  accordingly  the  suit  was  placed. 

We  must  pass  lightly  over  the  next  few  years  in  the  life  of 
our  heroine,  mentioning  only  those  circumstances  necessary  for 
the  clear  elucidation  of  our  narrative. 

Florence  Leslie  was  not  a character  to  fall  from  the  promise 
of  high  and  noble  virtue  which  the  early  age  of  seventeen  had 
appeared  to  give.  The  impression  of  Lady  Ida’s  faultless 
qualities  and  most  endearing  character  could  not  fade  from  an 
imagination  ardent  as  her  own.  It  was  continually  before  her 
eyes,  inciting  her  to  many  of  those  trifling  acts  of  self-denial 
and  moral  strength,  which  might  otherwise  have  been  un- 
performed. 

At  seventeen  a-  girl’s  character  is  seldom  fully  formed.  It 
is  the  first  opening  of  life  ; its  first  susceptibility  of  enjoyment; 
its  first  consciousness  of  power,  of  feeling,  of  perfect  happiness, 
unalloyed  even  by  those  whisperings  of  our  innate  corruption, 
to  which  we  only  awake  by  degrees.  All  things  seem  as 
bright,  as  fond,  as  innocent,  as  our  own  minds  : love  ! love 
breathes  around  us  in  nature  as  in  man  : we  see  nothing  of 
the  universal  curse,  but  all  of  the  universal  love  ! We  may 
hear  of  sin  and  suffering,  but  they  are  things  afar  off,  and  of 
little  moment.  Some  deem  childhood  the  happiest  season  of 
life  ; but  oh  ! surely  it  is  youth. 

Childhood  is  but  a dream,  containing,  indeed,  the  germs  of 
after-being,  not  the  flowers  themselves.  It  is  the  threshold  of 
spring,  but  not  spring  itself.  No  ! spring,  like  youth,  comes 
in  the  sudden  flood  of  sunshine — kindles  with  magic  touch  the 
senseless  seed  into  the  fragrant  flower — converts  the  laughter 
of  the  moment  into  the  deeper  smile  of  the  heart — the  weary 
toil  of  task  and  restraint  into  the  springy  freedom,  the  buoyant 
hope,  the  bright  unfading  glory  of  life — awakened,  beautiful 
existence  ! 


;56 


woman’s  friendship. 


But  even  as  it  is  the  season  of  guilelessness,  of  joy,  of  good 
that  thinketh  no  evil,  so  is  it  of  impression.  The  heart  and 
mind,  like  wax,  are  moulded  to  whatever  form  the  hand  of 
affection  points  ; and  happy  is  it  for  those  whose  first  friend- 
ships, whose  early  associations,  are  with  those  capable  of 
impressing  there  nothing  but  the  good.  We  are  writing 
generally ; but  perhaps  it  is  only  to  those  peculiarly  ardent 
and  clinging  dispositions,  of  which  Florence  Leslie  was  one,  to 
whom  these  remarks  are  applicable.  There  are  girls,  even  of 
seventeen,  so  wrapt  in  self,  that  the  material  of  the  heart  is  of 
stone  instead  of  flesh  ; and  others  again  are  content  to  flutter 
through  the  brief  period  of  existence,  with  neither  strength  of 
impulse  nor  power  of  imagination,  and  consequently  laugh  at 
all  things  which  speak  of  thought  or  feeling. 

Gradually  the  character  of  Florence  deepened — her  intellect 
expanded  ; and  as  the  girl  merged  into  the  woman,  if  her  wild 
and  joyous  spirits  were  in  part  subdued,  there  was  a truth,  a 
firmness  of  principle,  a powerful  sense  of  religion,  a yet  deeper 
capability  of  suffering  and  enduring,  which,  to  those  capable 
of  appreciating,  or  even  of  understanding  her,  would  have 
rendered  her  at  twenty  still  more  deserving  of  love.  But 
Emily  Melford  was  right.  It  did,  indeed,  appear  as  if,  by 
the  encouragement  of  these  lofty  and  glowing  feelings,  her 
doom  was  to  stand  alone,  to  meet  vfith  none  to  whom  she 
could  lay  bare  her  whole  heart ; with  few  who  did  not  smile 
at  aught  of  sentiment  or  action  higher  than  was  common ; 
and  so  at  length  it  was  only  within  her  own  circle  that 
Florence  Leslie  was  really  known. 

There  was  one  person,  however,  who,  though  a stern,  for- 
bidding aspect  prevented  many  from  thinking  aloud  before 
her,  could  yet  (strange  to  say)  afford  to  love,  and  had  sense  to 
appreciate  our  youthful  heroine.  This  was  a Mrs.  Livers,  a 
distant  relation  of  Mr.  Leslie,  with  wdiom  intercourse  had  been 
continually  kept  up,  which  was  more  intimately  renewed  some 
little  time  after  Lady  Ida’s  departure. 

The  peculiarly  chilling  character  of  this  lady  had  been 
formed  by  a most  extraordinary  train  of  deceit  and  falsehood 
in  persons  whom  she  loved  and  trusted.  From  having  been 
one  of  the  most  affectionate  and  most  confiding  beings,  she 
became  the  coldest  and  most  forbidding — from  trusting  all,  she 
trusted  none  ; not  at  least  in  appearance,  for  it  was  shrewdly 
suspected  that  a young  girl  whom  she  had  adopted,  and  to 


■woman’s  friendship. 


57 


whom  it  was  supposed  she  would  leave  all  her  property,  which 
was  considerable,  possessed  her  afifections  in  the  warmest 
degree.  This  orphan,  by  name  Flora  Leslie,  was  the  only 
remaining  relative  of  Mr.  Leslie  who  bore  his  name  ; relative, 
indeed,  she  could  hardly  be  called,  as  their  cousinship  was  five 
or  six  degrees  removed,  though  the  similarity  of  name  often 
caused  the  supposition  of  a much  nearer  consanguinity. 

The  residence  of  Mrs.  Livers  was  near  Winchester,  and 
thither  Florence  was  repeatedly  invited  as  a companion  to 
Flora,  with  whom,  however,  she  speedily  found  she  had  not  a 
thought  in  common  ; finding  much  more  to  excite  her  interest 
and  affection  in  Mrs.  Livers  herself.  To  her  she  was  so  in- 
variably attentive  and  respectful,  that  the  lady  might  have 
descended  from  her  pedestal  of  coldness  and  pride,  and  trusted 
once  again,  had  she  not  still  feared  to  find  those  endearing 
qualities  deceitful  as  before.  That  Flora  Leslie  was  of  a most 
unamiable  temper,  possessing  a remarkable  scarcity  of  attrac- 
tive or  endearing  qualities,  was  her  safeguard  in  the  opinion  of 
Mrs.  Livers,  particularly  as  the  young  lady  had  hypocrisy 
enough  ever  to  bewail  these  faults,  and  to  pretend  to  correct 
them  ; and  thus,  by  the  most  consummate  art,  she  deceived  by 
a completely  contrary  process  to  her  predecessors.  Florence 
speedily  penetrated  this,  and  turned  from  her  with  loathing  ; 
but  how  might  her  lips  warn  Mrs.  Livers  of  the  precipice  on 
which  her  last  attachment  seemed  to  stand.  How  descend  to 
so  mean  a deed  as  to  poison  her  mind  against  an  orphan 
dependent  on  her  for  support.  She  neither  could  nor  would 
act  thus;  contenting  herself  rather  with  continuing  her  simple 
true-hearted  kindness  towards  Mrs.  Livers ; often  sacrificing 
her  own  inclinations  and  favourite  duties  to  comply  with  her 
request,  and  make  some  stay  at  Woodlands. 


CHAPTER  XL 


■iTALTEE. — A PPvOPOSAL. — A EATHEe’s  DEATII-BED. 


We  ought,  perhaps,  to  have  mentioned  in  its  proper  place,  that 
Mr.  Leslie’s  desire  to  be  on  the  spot  to  superintend  the  pro- 
ceeding of  his  lawsuit,  urged  him  to  give  up  his  beautiful  little 
retreat  in  Devonshire,  and  reside  in  the  metropolis  ; thus 
materially  increasing  his  expenditure,  though  the  family  lived 
as  economically  as  possible,  and  as  materially  decreasing  their 
domestic  comforts  and  enjoyments.  Mr.  Leslie  was  far  too 
honourable  to  live  beyond  his  present  means,  because  he  confi- 
dently trusted  his  future  would  bring  wealth  ; and  when  eco- 
nomy must  be  consulted,  and  observers  of  that  economy  are  of 
birth  and  education,  London  does  not  possess  one  quarter  of  the 
happiness  or  the  true  enjoyment  of  the  country.  There, 
pleasures  the  most  innocent,  the  most  healthful,  the  most 
reviving,  await  the  economist  at  every  turn,  without  the 
smallest  tax  upon  his  finances.  Not  thus  is  it  in  the 
metropolis.  It  has  indeed  many  avenues  of  improvement,  of 
pleasure,  of  true  enjoyment ; but  they  are  for  those  to  whom 
money  is  no  object,  time  of  little  value ; not  for  that  noble 
set  of  economists,  who  rather  than  indulge  in  the  expense 
attendant  on  pleasure,  would  forego  it  altogether. 

Mrs.  Lesle’s  delicate  health  had  prevented  their  keeping 
much  society  even  in  Devonshire.  In  London  they  kept  still 
less;  for  in  the  environs  of  this  great  city,  as  in  the  city  itself,, 
people  may  live  next  door  to  each  other  for  years,  and  never 
know  more  than  their  respective  names ; and,  therefore,  though 
in  a populous  neighbourhood,  the  Leslies  lived  in  comparative 
solitude. 

It  so  happened  that  neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs.  Leslie  had  any 
near  relation,  or  even  connections,  both  having  been  only 
children,  and  the  latter,  in  fact,  an  orphan  from  her  earliest 
years. 


woman’s  miENDSHIP. 


59 


All  these  things  considered,  it  was  no  very  gTeat  wonder  that 
London  to  Florence  Leslie  was  in  truth  a prison,  compared 
with  the  joys,  the  freedom,  and,  above  all,  the  associations  of 
the  country.  Yet  she  was  happy,  for  her  mind  could  create 
its  own  resources,  and  outward  excitement  she  needed  not. 
Her  domestic  circle  was  sufficient  to  call  forth  all  the  affection, 
the  animation  of  her  nature.  The  opening  mind,  the  bird-like 
joyousness  of  Minie  ; the  far  higher  character  of  Walter,  even 
the  anxiety  his  delicate  health  occasioned,  bound  her  closer 
and  closer  to  tliem  both ; till  with  the  vivid  memories  of  Lady 
Ida,  and  the  lively  correspondence  of  Emily  Melford,  which, 
marvellous  to  relate,  continued  the  length  of  two  full  years, 
Florence’s  simple  nature  needed  no  more.  She  did  sometimes 
think  it  strange,  that  during  the  three  months  which  the 
Melfords  passed  in  town,  Emily  should  never  make  any 
exertion  to  see  her,  or  renew  the  intercourse  between  the 
families ; but  for  the  first  few  years,  Florence  was  too  happy 
in  herself  to  feel  it  as  neglect.  She  had  no  particular  need  of 
their  kindness,  so  did  not  miss  it.  Alas ! it  is  only  in  the  time 
of  sorrow,  only  when  we  most  need  kindness,  that  we  awake 
to  the  bitter  consciousness  of  coldness  and  neglect. 

Meanwhile  time  passed.  Two,  and  nearly  three  years,  and 
Mr.  Leslie’s  lawsuit  appeared  making  no  progress  whatever 
towards  a favourable  completion ; calling,  indeed,  for  multi- 
plied expenses,  which  he  met  willingly,  because  unalterably 
convinced  that  success  would  attend  him  at  last ; a conviction 
shared,  with  all  the  buoyant  anticipation  of  youth,  by  his  son, 
to  whom,  much  against  Mrs.  Leslie’s  consent,  his  hopes  and 
expectations  had  been  imparted. 

Walter  looked  not  to  riches  as  means  of  sensual  pleasures 
and  intemperate  indulgences.  Inheriting,  unhappily,  the 
sickly  constitution  of  his  mother,  a severe  illness,  soon  after 
he  was  fifteen,  deprived  him  of  all  taste  for  boyish  pleasures, 
and  gave  him  but  one  great  desire  to  become  mentally  great. 
Tastes  and  powers  suddenly  awakened  within  him  never  felt 
before.  He  had  always  been  remarkably  intellectual ; but 
with  the  sudden  conception  of  poetry,  painting,  sculpture,  all 
those  links  of  a higher,  more  ethereal  nature,  his  former  joy- 
ous spirits  changed  to  a sensitiveness,  an  almost  morbid  sus- 
ceptibility of  feeling. 

He  gave  the  whole  energy  of  mind  and  heart  to  his  studies. 
It  mattered  not  what  subject  they  embraced ; he  mastered 


60 


woman’s  friendship. 


them  with  an  ease,  a capability  of  comprehension,  which  caused 
both  his  father  and  himself  to  laugh  at  the  fancy,  that  by  too 
much  application  he  was  injuring  his  already  but  too  precarious 
health. 

Mrs.  Leslie’s  anxious  spirit  often  trembled,  but  it  was  more 
at  his  faultless  temper,  his  confiding  and  affectionate  heart,  his 
extraordinary  sense  of  religious  trust  and  dependence.  Yet, 
oh ! how  could  a mother,  as  she  looked  upon  and  traced  the 
many  virtues  of  her  boy,  wish  it  had  been  otherwise  ? How 
breathe  the  secret  dread,  that  he  seemed  but  lent  to 
earth  ? 

During  Lady  Ida’s  intimacy  with  Florence,  Walter  had  been 
at  school  in  London ; but  he  had  never  been  happy  there : either 
the  close  air  did  not  agree  with  him,  or  the  regular  and  some- 
what confined  routine  of  lessons  and  exercises  cramped  his 
energies,  and  permitted  no  vent  to  its  higher  talents.  After 
his  severe  illness,  he  of  course,  remained  at  home,  studying  of 
his  own  accord,  and  with  little  assistance  of  masters.  At 
seventeen,  the  air  of  the  north  being  recommended,  Mr.  Leslie 
placed  him,  to  his  great  delight,  with  a clergyman  in  West- 
moreland ; and  there  it  was  that  all  his  natural  endowments 
in  poetry  and  painting  burst  upon  him  with  a flash,  a brilliancy, 
lighting  up  his  whole  being  with  new  powers  and  new’  life  ; 
banishing  all  trace  of  too  morbid  sensitiveness  or  too  depressing 
gloom,  and  bringing  in  their  stead  such  a glowing  sense  of  joy, 
such  a consciousness  of  power,  that  even  the  desire  of  wealtli 
lost  all  its  strength,  for  he  believed  he  possessed  gifts  within 
him  which  would  make  their  own  way,  compel  a w’orld  to 
acknowledge  them,  and  wreath  his  humble  name  with  the 
bright  garland  of  immortal  renown.  Alas  ! poor  boy,  he  knew 
not  how  much  more  than  to  other  minds  is  independence 
necessary  for  the  happiness  of  genius. 

Florence  had  just  completed  her  twentieth  year,  when,  to 
her  great  astonishment,  she  received,  through  her  father,  an 
offer  of  marriage  from  a highly  respectable  young  man  whom 
she  had  met  now  and  then  at  Woodlands,  but  whose  attentions 
she  had  never  deemed  anything  more  than  the  courtesy  of  the 
hour.  Mr.  Leslie-  was  unusually  urgent  in  forwarding  young 
Sedley’s  suit,  more  so  than  Florence  could  at  all  comprehend. 
It  needed  all  her  firmness,  all  her  eloquence,  all  her  caresses  to 
win  him  over  to  her  views,  and  obtain  his  consent  for  the 
decided  dismissal  of  her  admirer. 


woman’s  friendship. 


61 


He  said  that  she  knew  not  the  advantage  it  would  he, 
almost  the  necessity  there  existed  for  her  to  enter  early  into  a 
respectable  matrimonial  engagement ; an  argument  she  could 
not  understand.  True,  she  said  that  she  knew  if  the  lawsuit 
were  unfortunately  lost,  his  fortune  would  be  materially 
diminished ; but  could  he  think  that  she  would  shrink  from 
aught  of  privation  shared  with  her  family  ? rather  she  would 
remain  to  work  for  them,  to  save  their  beautiful  and  childlike 
Millie  all  necessity  to  quit  her  home.  She  could  not  enter  the 
holy  engagement  of  matrimony,  without  feeling  either  respect 
or  love  for  him  whom  she  must  solemnly  vow  to  love,  honour, 
and  obey ; she  could  not  marry  simply  for  worldly  advantages. 
Mr.  Leslie  said  it  was  not  to  mere  worldly  views  he  referred, 
but  then  checked  himself,  agitated  to  a degree  yet  more 
startingly  incomprehensible  to  his  daughter,  more  particularly 
as  her  mother  shared  it.  Terrified,  she  knew  not  wherefore, 
she  threw  herself  on  Mrs.  Leslie’s  neck,  exclaiming  in  extreme 
emotion — 

If  your  happiness,  your  interests,  my  beloved  parents,  are 
in  any  way  concerned  in  this  intended  marriage,  only  tell  me, 
and  I will  school  my  spirit  till  I can  m.ake  this  sacrifice  ; only 
tell  me,  do  not  deceive  me ; does  this  alliance  concern  your 
welfare,  as  w'ell  as  the  supposed  advantages  to  myself?  does  it 
affect  you  in  any  way  ? Tell  me  but  the  truth — the  whole 
truth — do  not  terrify  me  by  mysteries  which  I cannot  solve  ; 
say  but  the  word,  if  indeed  it  be  for  you.” 

'^  Florence,  my  child  ! it  was  but  for  yourself  I spoke,” 
replied  her  father,  for  Mrs.  Leslie  could  but  strain  the  weeping 
girl  to  her  heart  in  silence  ; ‘^solemnly  I pledge  my  word,  I 
thought  but  of  your  interests,  your  happiness,  and  welcomed 
this  offer  as  insuring  you  an  independent  home  and  station, 
which  neither  circumstance  nor  accident  could  affect.” 

^^But  why  should  I need  these  things  more  than  others, 
father  ? why  should  you  banish  me  from  your  hearth — ^your 
name  ? ” 

It  was  a very  simple  question,  but  Mr.  Leslie’s  answer  was 
as  if  it  said  more  to  his  wife  and  to  himself  than  she  had 
meant.  ^ He  caught  her  convulsively  in  his  arms,  passionately 
exclaiming — 

''You  are  right,  my  blessed  child!  quite,  quite  right.  Why, 
indeed,  should  I banish  you  from  my  name  and  hearth?  No — 
no — ^you  shall  never  change  them,  save  for  those  you  may  love 


62 


■^^0  man’s  friendship. 


better.  Florence,  darling  ! forgive  your  father.  I have  been 
too  urgent,  but  it  was  for  you,  my  child,  only  for  you.” 

And  hastily  releasing  her,  he  quitted  the  room,  leaving 
Florence  in  a state  of  such  indefinable  dread,  that  her  mother 
compelled  herself  to  calmness  to  soothe  her,  assuring  her  that 
they  had  but  spoken  for  her  good ; her  father’s  interests  were 
in  no  ways  affected,  and  that  she  knew  a little  thing  disturbed 
him  now.  Florence  wept  away  her  emotion  on  the  bosom  of 
her  mother,  and  Mr.  Leslie’s  resumed  calmness,  when  they 
again  met,  removed  every  lingering  fear. 

Does  she  suspect  ? Have  I ruined  her  peace  for  ever  ? 
Mary — Mary  ! why  have  I not  your  control  ?”  was  Mr. 
Leslie’s  agitated  address  to  his  wife,  when  all  but  themselves 
had  retired  to  rest. 

She  suspects  nothing,  dearest  Edward,  save  that  your  love 
for  her  is  even  stronger  than  she  believed  it ; but  oh,  for  the 
sake  of  our  sweet  girl’s  peace,  bid  her  not  to  wed  again.  It 
seems  as  if  that  gentle  heart  were  mercifully  preserved  from 
all  love  save  for  us,  to  spare  me  the  bitter  agony  of  giving  her 
to  another  with  the  truth  untold ; the  dark  alternative  of 
persisting  in  that  which  is  not,  or  ruining  her  peace  for  ever. 
You  do  not  feel  this,  and  therefore  believe  that  marriage 
would  give  her  greater  security  than  remaining  with  us  ; but 
oh,  my  husband,  do  not  urge  it  again.  An  all-seeing  Providence 
is  round  us.  Let  us  believe  he  specially  watches  over  her 
sweet  innocence,  and  by  keeping  her  thus  from  all  love, 
guards  her  from  dangers,  from  misery  I dare  not  speak.” 

Mr.  Leslie  seemed  convinced  and  affected ; but  whether, 
indeed,  he  would  have  followed  his  wife’s  advice  could  never 
be  known  ; for,  two  short  months  after  this  event,  he  was 
attacked  by  a violent  illness,  terminating  so  suddenly  and 
fatally,  that  Walter  had  barely  time  to  travel  post  to  London, 
called  thither  by  a letter  from  Florence,  in  agony  conjuring 
him  to  come  to  them  without  a moment’s  delay,  ere  the  fond 
husband  and  affectionate  father  breathed  his  last. 

Of  all  deaths,  a sudden  one  is  the  most  dreadful,  the  most 
agonizing  to  the  survivors.  It  is  said,  death,  whenever  it 
comes,  is  sudden  ; a shock  always  stunning,  always  over- 
whelming. Perhaps  it  is  so ; but  when  only  one  week  intervenes 
between  life  and  death,  one  little  week  severs  ties  of  years, 
hides  under  the  cold  damp  earth  features  which  beamed  upon 
us  in  health  and  joy  from  every  accustomed  haunt ; uhen  the 


woman’s  friendship. 


63 


lieloved  is  removed  directly  from  his  domestic  circle  to  the 
narrow  grave,  missed  from  his  usual  seat,  not  to  be  found  in 
some  other,  which,  though  painful  (if  a couch  of  suffering), 
yet  becomes  dear,  but  missed,  to  be  remembered  only  as  gone 
for  ever ; when  no  intervening  period  of  dependence  on  the 
part  of  the  sufferer,  of  unremitting  attention  and  increased 
affection  from  the  beloved  ones,  has  taken  place,  and,  as  it 
were,  partially  prepared  us  for  the  last  dread  change,  the  final 
separation ; when  none  of  these  things  take  place,  oh,  who 
may  speak  the  agonies  of  death. 

And  all  this  was  felt  by  Mrs.  Leslie  and  her  children.  They 
had  had  no  time  to  fear,  still  less  to  hope,  and  it  was  long  ere 
they  could  realize  that  one  so  ardently  beloved  indeed  had 
passed  away  for  ever.  The  extremity  of  Mrs.  Leslie’s  anguish 
none  knew  but  Him  in  whose  ear  in  the  watches  of  the  night 
it  had  been  poured.  Her  illness,  her  uncomplaining  patience 
had  bound  her  more  closely  than  common  to  him,  and  his 
almost  womanly  care  and  gentleness  through  her  long  years  of 
suffering,  excited  no  common  love ; and  bodily  disease  itself 
seemed  for  the  while  subdued,  conquered  by  this  sudden  and 
most  agonizing  mental  affliction.  She  had  left  her  couch  to 
attend  his  dying  bed  ; day  and  night  she  moved  not  from  his 
pillow,  save  at  the  moment  of  Walter’s  arrival,  for  she  dreaded 
the  effect  of  the  shock  upon  him.  And  not  alone  was  it  the 
husband  of  her  love,  the  gentle  soother  of  her  painful  couch 
whom  she  had  to  mourn.  There  was  a secret  tie  between 
them,  calling  for  all  the  devotion,  all  the  gratitude  of  woman’s 
heart.  In  the  first  year  of  their  marriage,  he  had  granted  a 
boon,  a weighty  boon  ; one,  perhaps,  that  none  other  but 
Edward  Leslie  could  have  granted,  and  never  from  that  hour 
evinced  regret  that  he  had  done  so.  And  now  that  dread 
secret  was  all  her  own,  only  her  own  ; and  its  heavy  weight 
appeared  to  increase  the  bitter  anguish  of  her  husband’s  loss. 

At  the  moment  Mrs.  Leslie  left  the  pillow  of  tlie  dying  to 
meet  her  son,  Florence  alone  stood  beside  his  bed.  His  eyes 
were  closed  ; the  livid  hue  of  death  had  stolen  over  his 
features,  and  the  poor  girl  bent  over  him,  stunned,  motionless, 
unconscious  that  scalding  tears  were  slowly  rolling  down  her 
cheeks,  and  falling  upon  his.  He  opened  his  eyes  languidly, 
and  tried  feebly  to  draw  her  to  him,  and  as  she  laid  her  head 
on  his  bosom,  kissing  again  and  again  his  sunken  cheek,  he 
whispered,  in  broken  and  disjointed  sentences — 


64 


WOMANS  FRIENDSHIP. 


Florence,  my  child  ! my  precious  child  ! bless — ^hless  you. 
You  are  indeed  my  daughter.  Minie  is  not  dearer.  Love — 
love  your  mother,  darling  ; cherish  her,  care  for  her  as  you 
have  done.  She  has  more  than  common  claim  for  gratitude. 

Florence — darling — bless ” 

And  his  voice  had  sunk  from  exhaustion,  so  as  to  be  wholly 
inarticulate,  though  his  lips  still  moved  as  if  he  spoke.  Again 
and  again  those  words  returned  to  Florence  ; the  feeble  tone, 
the  look  of  death  haunted  her ; but  there  was  no  mystery 
attached  to  them,  they  seemed  to  her  but  the  last  warning 
accents  of  that  parental  love,  which  had  so  long  blest  her  with 
the  guidance  of  a friend  as  well  as  father.  With  more  than 
usual  claims  for  love  and  gratitude,  she  recalled  her  mother  s 
years  of  suffering,  which  yet  had  never  checked  her  devotion 
to  her  children,  and  she  compared  that  affectionate  devotedness 
with  the  fashionable  selfishness  and  culpable  neglect  of  others 
whom  she  knew,  and  she  felt  she  had  indeed  a double  incentive 
to  duty  and  affection.  She  knelt  by  the  dead  body  of  her 
father,  and  secretly  vowed  to  make  her  mother  the  first  object 
of  her  life,  and  then  only  felt  relieved  from  the  w^eight  even  of 
love  which  her  father  s last  words  had  left. 


CHAPTER  XIL 


TILIAL  LOVE. — WALTER  SEEKS  EMPLOYMENT. — ABILITY  AND 
INTEREST. 


Mr.  Leslie’s  sudden  death  had,  of  course,  left  all  his  worldly 
affairs  in  confusion.  Depending  entirely  on  the  success  of  his 
lawsuit,  and  believing,  from  his  usual  good  health,  that  many 
years  of  life  were  still  before  him,  he  had  left  no  will,  nor  any 
instructions  as  to  the  division  of  his  still  untouched  property. 
The  examination  of  his  papers  Mrs.  Leslie  took  upon  herself. 
There  were  indeed  no  debts  to  startle  her,  but,  as  she  had 
long  anticipated,  considerable  law  expenses,  which  had  very 
materially  decreased  his  income.  To  withdraw  all  further 
prosecution  of  the  suit  was  now  impossible,  for  much  as  Mrs. 
Leslie  in  secret  might  still  have  wished  it,  but  yet  hallowed  as 
it  now  seemed  by  its  association  with  the  dead,  and  by  the 
interests  of  the  living,  she  would  not  perchance  have  drawn 
back,  even  if  she  could. 

On  Walter’s  delicate  frame  and  sensitive  spirit,  this  loss  of 
his  almost  idolised  father  had  at  first  produced  such  painful 
effects,  as  greatly  to  alarm  his  affectionate  family.  He  was, 
however,  effectually  roused,  when  he  became  aware  of  his 
mother’s  determination  to  divide  the  little  property  equally 
between  her  children,  without  reserving  the  smallest  portion 
for  herself.  Respectfully  but  positively  he  declared  that  this 
should  not  be.  It  was  no  position  for  a parent,  and  one  like 
herself.  Rather  would  he  feel  himself  and  his  sisters  utterly 
dependent  upon  her,  than  so  completely  to  reverse  the  law  of 
nature  and  of  filial  feeling.  His  sisters  said  the  same,  and 
inexpressibly  affected,  Mrs.  Leslie  was  compelled  to  submit. 

Little  did  she  know  the  further  intentions  of  her  children. 
That  Walter  and  Florence  never  rested,  scarcely  slept,  till 


66 


woman’s  friendship. 


with  the  assistance  of  a friend,  one  learned  in  the  law,  though 
no  practitioner,  they  had  secured  her  little  portion  upon 
herself,  binding  themselves  as  representatives  of  their  deceased 
parent,  and  consequently  pledging  themselves  to  answer  all 
demands  of  the  impending  suit.  This  accomplished,  both 
were  comparatively  relieved,  but  Walter  still  felt  that  his 
task  was  not  yet  done. 

It  was  one  evening,  about  six  weeks  after  Mr.  Leslie’s 
death,  that  Mrs.  Leslie  found  herself  alone  with  her  son.  A 
favourite  work  was  open  before  him,  but  his  head  had  gradually 
sunk  upon  his  hands,  and  many  minutes  passed,  and  still  he- 
did  not  raise  it. 

Walter,  my  own  Walter  !” 

Mother !”  he  threw  himself  with  a sudden  impulse  on  her 
neck,  and  she  heard  him  sob. 

My  boy,  it  was  the  will  of  a gracious  Providence  that  he 
should  go  from  us.  Oh,  we  must  not  resist  by  too  long,  too 
unresigned  a sorrow.  I know  what  he  was  to  you,  my  child — 
to  us  all — but ” 

Mother,  it  is  not  only  for  my  father  I mourn.  Oh, 
mother,  mother,  I am  a weak,  sinful  wretch — knowing  what  is 
right,  and  having  no  strength  of  myself  to  do  it.” 

Who  has  strength  of  himself,  my  child  ? Who  can  have 
it,  unless  infused — sought  for  by  prayer  and  action  ?” 

Yes,  mother,  action  as  well  as  prayer,  and  it  is  there  I 
fail.  I have  sought  it  in  prayer,  but  not  in  action;  but  I 
will,  mother,  trust  me  I will.” 

But  Avhat  will  you,  my  Walter  ? I know  that  there  is 
even  more  that  depresses  you  than  the  anguish  which  we  have 
mutually  borne,  something  peculiarly  your  own.  If  I cannot 
remove,  I may  share  it,  and  so  lessen  its  burden.  Tell  it  me 
then,  my  child.” 

And  after  a moment’s  pause,  Walter  did  pour  every  anxious 
thought  and  inward  struggle  into  his  mother’s  ear  ; and  as  he 
concluded  he  looked  earnestly  on  his  mother’s  face,  and  its  ^ 
expression  was  as  he  expected. 

You  think  with  me,”  he  said  : ‘^you  would  not  have  me 
wait  till  this  lawsuit  is  decided,  to  form  my  future  plans.  You 
think  with  me.” 

In  our  present  situation,  my  child,  I cannot  think  other- 
wise. Yet  is  it  impossible  to  unite  inclination  and  profession  ? 
Wliy  must  you  give  up  those  pursuits,  not  only  naturally 


woMAi^j’s  rrtiENDSiii?.  67 

dear,  but  hallowed  by  the  recollection  of  your  father’s  indulged 
love  r 

Mother,  I will  tell  you.  I know  that  many  would  deem 
me  a romantic  visionary,  but  my  longing  desire  is  to  tread  the 
path  of  fame,  by  the  pen  of  literature  or  the  pencil  of  the 
artist — na}^,  perchance,  to  unite  the  two,  and  rank  high,  as 
others  have  done  before  me ; but  to  do  this  needs  years  of 
patient  labour.  I would  not  come  before  my  country  an 
unfledged  stripling.  I could  not  bear  the  lash  of  criticism. 
No ; either  with  the  pen  or  pencil,  there  must  be  genius 
marked.  I would  not  have  it  said  'in  time  he  will  do  well 
I w^ould  study  under  efficient  masters,  be  sure  of  my  position, 
and  then  assume  it,  and  feel  I have  not  lived  in  vain.” 

He  ceased  abruptly,  reading  his  mother’s  tearful  sympathy 
in  the  trembling  pressure  of  her  hands  ; but  the  glow  passed 
from  his  beautiful  features. 

But  this  is  folly,”  he  continued.  Mother,  dearest,  your 
Walter  will  prove  himself  worthy  of  his  father  and  of  you. 
My  sisters  shall  not  miss  their  father  while  their  brother 
lives.” 

‘‘But,  my  Walter,  bodily  weakness  as  well  as  mental  tastes 
disincline  you  for  the  exertion  you  propose.” 

“ No,  mother,  if  health  will  bear  up  against  the  labour  of 
mind,  or  rather  that  which  men  term  mental  labour — for  I 
have  felt  it  not — will  it  not  against  mere  mechanical  employ- 
ment ? Do  not  fear  me,  mother  ; I am  happier  alread}^, 
having  spoken  ; and  I shall  be  happier  still,  when,  by  the 
performance  of  my  duty,  I can  add  to  the  comfort  of  my 
sisters  and  yourself,”  and  throwing  himself  on  his  knees  before 
his  mother,  he  kissed  away  her  tears,  and  talking  cheerfully  of 
other  things,  till  the  widow  smiled  again. 

Unhappily  for  Walter’s  real  interests,  the  friends  he  con- 
sulted were  not  of  the  class  which,  appreciating  his  high 
endowments,  would  give  them  the  encouragement  they  needed. 
Almost  as  rare  as  genius  itself,  is  (perhaps  from  their  near 
connection) — 

The  power 

Of  feeling  where  true  genius  lies.” 

And  that  power  is  not  to  be  found  amongst  those  who, 
accustomed  to  worldly  thoughts  and  interests  from  early 
boyhood,  and  taught  to  consider  amassing  money  the  ne  plus 
ultra  of  human  felicity,  have  neither  time  nor  inclination  for 

r 2 


68 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


anything  else.  Mr.  Leslie’s  few  acquaintances  were  of  this 
worldly  class  ; and  several  times  he  had  been  accused  of  folly, 
by  fostering,  as  he  did,  what  were  called  Walter’s  excessive 
indolence  and  romance. 

Amongst  these,  Walter  was  of  course  not  likely  to  meet 
with  the  expansive  intellect  and  active  benevolence  which  he 
so  much  needed.  When  he  communicated  his  wishes  to  obtain 
some  employment,  he  was  greeted  with  a congratulatory  shake 
of  the  hand,  that  he  had  awakened  at  length  with  the  spirit 
to  be  a man,  and  to  throw  off  all  the  idle  fancies  his  poor 
father’s  weak  indulgence  had  so  egregiously  encouraged. 

Almost  sick  with  anguish  did  poor  Walter  turn  at  such 
speeches ; for  more  and  more  heavily  the  conviction  pressed 
upon  him,  that  he  had  in  truth  not  one  friend  who  could 
understand,  and,  understanding,  aid  him  ; he  scarcely  could 
define  how,  but  still  he  felt  that  there  had  been  others  in  the 
same  position,  and  that  they  had  found  sympathising  friends, 
who  brought  them  forward  from  obscurity,  and  enabled  them 
to  win,  by  the  proper  cultivation  of  their  talents,  a station  for 
themselves. 

Walter  knew’  his  own  power ; felt  that,  young  as  he  was,  his 
nature  was  higher  than  that  of  his  fellows,  his  views  more 
exalted ; and  it  was  difficult  to  him  to  believe  that  he  stood 
so  utterly  alone  that  his  talents  were  to  remain  disregarded 
and  neglected.  He  had  still  the  bitter  lesson  to  learn,  that 
unless  their  lot  be  among  the  independent  and  influential  of 
the  land,  the  gifted  but  too  often  stand  alone,  from  the  high 
aspirations  feeding  on  themselves  ; the  vain  yearners  for  what 
this  world  may  not  give  : for  wdiat  is  genius  ? A spark  from 
that  fountain  of  living  light  around  the  Eternal’s  throne — a 
link  of  that  golden  chain  by  which  this  world  is  suspended 
from  its  parent  heaven,  invisible  to  all  save  its  possessors, 
sometimes  not  even  to  them,  according  as  the  immortal  mind 
is  dimmed  by  the  shade  of  earth,  or  touched  by  the  dazzling 
rays  of  heaven. 

While  his  friends  were  actively  endeavouring  to  procure  him 
some  advantageous  situation,  Walter  learned  that  an  apprentice 
was  wanted  by  one  of  the  most  influential  engravers  of  the 
metropolis.  He  sought  the  establishment  directly,  and  was 
received  politely,  but  coldly. 

‘‘  Such  a press  of  applicants  there  were,”  Mr.  Markham 
said,  ‘‘that  really  unless  the  candidates  could  bring  credentials 


WOMANS  FRIENDSHIP. 


69 


from  experienced  men  in  the  art,  it  was  almost  impossible  to 
give  them  the  attention  they  might  deserve.’’ 

No  snch  condition  had  been  made  in  the  advertisement,” 
Walter  said,  and  added,  perhaps  somewhat  proudly,  “ that 
had  he  known  such  was  needed,  he  would  not  have  intruded. 
He  thought  ability  the  desired  criterion.” 

""Ability  ! oh,  of  course,  that  would  be  proved  by  the 
necessary  credentials.  He  would,  however,  be  happy  to  look 
over  Mr.  Leslie’s  portfolio  ; he  supposed  he  knew  something  of 
the  art,  as  he  did  not  look  so  very  young  as  to  begin  from  the 
very  beginning.” 

Walter  answered  with  simplicity  and  truth  ; and  modestly 
unclasping  his  portfolio,  he  placed  it  before  Mr.  Markham. 

A very  casual  glance  sufficed  to  convince  the  engraver  that 
there  was  no  ordinary  genius  impressed  in  those  simple  draw- 
ings ; but  he  was  too  much  a man  of  the  world,  and  of 
worldly  interests,  to  express  admiration  till  he  could  feel  his  way. 

""  Very  good,  very  good,”  he  said.  ""  If  we  can  come  to 
terms,  why  engraving  may  be  no  hard  matter  after  all.  I 
have  had  youngsters  who  did  not  give  so  much  promise,  and 
yet  did  well.  You  have  friends,  I suppose,  willing  to  pay  the 
necessary  premium  for  the  advantages  which  an  apprenticeship 
in  my  studio  offers?” 

Walter  felt  the  hot  blood  burn  in  his  cheek,  though  he 
struggled  against  it  calmly  to  say  ""that  he  was  not  so  pro- 
vided. He  was  the  only  son  of  a widowed  mother,  caring  not 
how  hard  he  laboured,  but  the  premium  Mr.  Markham 
demanded  was  certainly  not  in  his  power  to  give.  He  had 
hoped  that  his  abilities,  his  love  of  the  art ” 

He  stopped,  for  the  countenance  of  his  hearer  became  hard 
as  iron— only  varied  by  a slight  kind  of  sneer.  He  closed  the 
portfolio,  and  very  politely  said — 

The  thing  was  impossible.  He  had  only  too  many  can- 
didates offering  yet  more  than  he  demanded  ; the  difficulty, 
in  fact,  was  whom  to  choose.  He  was  sorry  Mr.  Leslie  should 
have  taken  the  trouble  to  call,  as  he  believed  the  advertisement 
had  particularly  mentioned  premium.  He  regretted  being 
obliged  to  shorten  their  interview — but — a particular  engage- 
ment.” 

Walter  bowed  proudly  and  retired. 

""Perhaps,  after  all,  I have  not  the  gift  I dreamed  I had,” 
he  said  internally,  as  slowly  he  paced  the  crowded  streets. 


70 


woman’s  priendship. 


alone  amidst  thousands.  ‘‘Surely,  had  there  been  any  promise 
of  talent,  he  would  have  said  so,  though  he  could  not  serve 
me.  I heard  he  was  an  artist  himself,  discerning  and  impartial. 
Perhaps  it  is  better  he  did  not.  I may  more  easily  reconcile 
myself  to  other  employment.” 

But  still,  the  wish  once  excited,  that  by  engraving  he  might 
not  entirely  neglect  the  pencil,  would  not  let  him  rest ; and 
he  sought  the  friend  most  sincerely  interested  in  his  welfare, 
to  obtain  his  assistance  in  furthering  the  plan.  He  found  him, 
however,  much  averse  to  it. 

“It  was  necessary,”  he  said,  “that  Walter  should  obtain 
some  situation  which  would  pay  directly.  He  had  heard  that 
a large  establishment  connected  with  the  East  India  House 
was  offering  £50  per  annum,  with  a promise  of  raising  it 
gradually  till  it  reached  £200,  to  any  one  who  knew  something 
of  the  Oriental  languages,  as  well  as  those  of  Europe.” 

Knowing  that  Walter  did  this,  his  friend  advised  him  to 
prove  that  his  wish  for  employment  was  no  idle  profession, 
by  securing  it  directly.  He  argued  so  successfully  that 
Walter  sought  the  head  of  the  establishment  that  very  hour, 
gave  such  proof  of  his  skill  in  languages  and  penmanship  as 
caused  the  greatest  satisfaction,  and  was  engaged ; the  whole 
business  irrevocably  settled  ere  he  turned  his  weary  footsteps 
home. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 


ESTEANGEMENT  AND  NEGLECT. — Y700DLANDS. — PANTING  WOEDS 
EEMEMBEEED. — ELOEA. 


It  is  strange  and  sad  that  any  trial,  instead  of  deadening  onr 
faculties,  save  to  the  one  source  of  grief,  so  awakens  every 
susceptibility  to  pain,  and  so  opens  the  varied  sluices  of  the 
human  heart,  that  all  its  mysterious  yearnings  lie  unsealed 
before  us.  In  the  calm  and  cheerful  tenor  of  her  previous  life, 
Florence  had  never  felt  lonely,  though  one  by  one  the  young 
companions  of  her  youth  faded  from  her  path.  Change  in 
character  or  situation  which  time  must  produce  had  dissolved 
this  intercourse  unconsciously  and  without  pain;  but  with 
Emily  Melford  the  case  was  different.  Florence  never  could 
forget  those  who  had  once  been  kind ; and  Emily  had,  through 
two  years’  regular  and  frequent  correspondence,  so  completely 
treated  her  as  a confidential  friend  that  Florence  could  scarcely 
think  of  change  in  her,  even  v/hile  she  had  long  felt  that  her 
simple  pleasures  or  anxieties  obtained  no  sympathy.  Emily 
always  wrote  of  herself,  and  Florence’s  self-love  might  have 
been  flattered,  as  there  is  always  something  soothing  to  our 
amour  propre  in  being  the  trusted  repository  of  another 
person’s  secrets.  The  third  year  of  their  intercourse,  however, 
Emily’s  letters  came  at  longer  and  longer  intervals,  on  smaller- 
sized  paper,  and  in  wider  lines,  till  at  last  they  ceased 
altogether.  Florence’s  last  communication  having  been 
answered,  after  an  interval  of  four  months,  by  a few  hurried 
and  irrelevant  lines,  she  could  not  write  again ; more 
particularly  as  this  occurred  just  about  the  time  of  the 
offer  of  marriage  to  which  we  have  before  alluded.  Thus, 
followed  as  it  had  been  in  two  short  months  by  Mr.  Leslie’s 
death,  weeks  passed  and  the  intercourse  was  not  renewed,  and 
’When  Florence  awoke  from  the  first  stupor  of  anguish,  to 


72 


woman’s  fhiendsiiip. 


outward  and  more  trifling  things,  it  was  to  the  hitter  con- 
sciousness of  estrangement  and  neglect. 

Mr.  Leslie’s  death  had  been  in  all  the  newspapers,  and  still, 
with  the  clinging  confidence  of  her  nature,  Florence  believed 
that  Emily  would  not,  could  not  be  so  engrossed  in  self  as  to 
permit  such  a bereavement  to  pass  unnoticed.  But  she  hoped 
in  vain.  She  knew  by  the  fashionable  journals  that  all  the 
Melfords  were  in  London.  She  was  even  foolish  enough  to 
hope  that  Emily  was  coming  to  speak  her  sympathy,  and 
therefore  would  not  Avrite — but  neither  visit  nor  letter  came. 

With  Lady  Ida,  Florence  had  never  been  a regular  corres- 
pondent. Her  shrinking  sensitiveness  always  kepr  her  back, 
fearful  to  intrude  ; feeling  that  a wider  barrier  stretched 
betw^een  her  and  Lady  Ida  when  in  joy  than  when  she  had 
been  in  sorrow.  She  had  written,  indeed,  whenever  Lady  Ida’s 
own  messages,  Emily’s  offers  of  opportunities,  and  her  own 
mood  of  hilarity,  had  given  her  courage  to  do  so.  But  this 
was  over  now,  for  Emily  Melford  Avas  the  only  one  through 
whom  she  could  hear  of  Lady  Ida  ; and  it  seemed  as  if  now 
she  dared  not  encourage  those  visions  of  Lady  Ida’s  continued 
regard  in  Avhich  she  had  indulged  so  long.  Since  her  bereave- 
ment all  felt  changed  around  and  within  her.  She  asked 
herself  Avhy  such  bitter  thoughts  should  come,  Avhen  surely  she 
had  enough  of  sorrow  ? But  she  could  not  ansAver,  and  her 
warm  affections  twined  closer  and  closer  around  the  beloved 
inmates  of  her  home,  seeking  to  banish  her  OAvn  sad  thoughts 
in  entire  devotion  to  those  around  her. 

As  the  groAA’th  of  affection  supposes  the  existence  of  good 
qualities,  and  from  the  regard  of  others  permits  us  to  form  a 
higher  estimate  of  ourselves,  so  the  loss  of  it  supposes  a decay 
of  those  qualities;  and  loAvering  us  in  our  self-esteem,  it  is  long 
before  the  Avounded  spirit  can  throAv  aside  the  false  idea  and 
Regain  its  former  position.  Oh,  too  sadly  and  closely  is  the 
happiness  of  man  entAvined  with  his  felloAV-man ; or  rather,  too 
lightly  is  such  truth  considered.  Hoav  much  of  misery  might 
be  soothed,  and  sorroAV  cheered,  Avere  mutual  kindness  the 
grand  object  of  life;  Avere  social  benevolence  to  walk  the  earth, 
giving  her  blessed  balm  to  those  that  Aveep,  and  her  gladdening 
words  to  those  that  smile  ! 

Perceiving  that  Florence,  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts,  did  not 
rally  either  in  spirits  or  health,  Mrs.  Leslie  at  length  prevailed 
an  her  to  accept  Mrs.  Bivers’s  repeated  invitations,  and  spend 


yrO.MAN’s  FRIENDSHIP. 


ra 

a short  time  at  Woodlands.  Florence  consented  with  reluc- 
tance. Her  mind  was  just  at  that  time  in  a state  of  painful 
uncertainty ; of  earnest  longings  in  thought,  and  a too 
sensitive  fearfulness  in  performance.  The  love  she  bore  her 
brother  exceeded  the  mere  affection  of  hand-in-hand  com- 
panionship. His  high  feelings,  his  poet’s  soul,  his  precarious 
health,  bound  him  to  her  with  ties  of  tenderness  and  almost 
veneration,  which  year  by  year  increased. 

Lady  Ida’s  parting  words — ''  if  in  anything  you  need  me,  or 
believe  my  friendship  or  influence  can  be  of  any  service  to- 
you,  write  without  scruple,”  returned  to  her  memory  repeat- 
edly. Her  influence  or  that  of  her  husband  might  indeed  be 
of  unspeakable  service  to  Walter,  and  might  she  indeed  ask  it 
for  him  ? 

At  Woodlands  these  thoughts  continued.  It  was  not  too- 
late,  for  he  was  not  bound  to  his  present  employment  for  any 
determinate  period.  Had  Lady  Ida  never  been  kind,  almost  a. 
stranger,  Florence  could  have  appealed  to  her  without  any 
hesitation  : but  the  dread  of  asking  too  much  she  knew  not 
how  to  overcome.  Walter’s  figure  rose  before  her,  paler,, 
thinner  than  it  had  been,  with  that  sad,  but  unspeakably 
beautiful  expression  which  she  had  marked,  when  he  told 
them  a situation  w^as  obtained — and  this  nerved  her  to 
the  task. 

It  w^as  not  an  easy  one,  for  she  would  not  give  vent  to  the 
gush  of  feeling  which  came  over  her ; but  simply  and  mourn- 
fully alluding  to  her  father’s  death  and  the  consequent  change 
in  Walter’s  prospects,  made  him,  and  him  alone,  the  subject  of 
her  letter.  She  wrote  wuth  affectionate  eloquence  of  his 
talents  and  peculiar  character;  and  then  alluding  to  Lady 
Ida’s  parting  words,  entreated  that  the  friendship,  the  influence 
she  had  promised  her,  might  be  showm  to  her  brother.  Not 
one  word  in  that  eloquent  letter  was  lowering  to  the  writer,  or 
derogatory  to  the  true  benevolence  of  the  receiver.  The  spell 
once  broken,  Florence  was  true  to  herself  and  to  her  friend 
and  materially  might  that  letter  have  altered  Walter’s  pros- 
pects, had  it  been  permitted  to  reach  its  destination.  To 
account  for  its  fate,  we  must  go  back  a space. 

We  have  before  mentioned  Mrs.  Eivers  and  her  establish- 
ment, and  that  with  Flora  Leslie,  wEose  similarity  of  name 
proved  afterwards  a most  annoying  circumstance,  Florence  had 
no  idea  or  feeling  in  common ; nay,  she  had  so  penetrated 


74 


woman’s  priendship. 


her  system  of  deceit  with  regard  to  her  generous  protectress, 
that  though  no  look  or  word  ever  betrayed  this  to  Mrs.  Kivers 
herself,  Flora’s  own  suspicions  were  aroused,  and  envy,  with 
its  whole  train  of  bad  thoughts  and  actions,  were  excited 
towards  her.  A circumstance  had  also  occurred  which 
increased  these  feelings  into  active  virulence.  Mrs.  Ptivers 
herself  lived  very  much  retired,  and  nothing  could  ever  pre- 
vail on  her  to  join  in  society  ; but  since  Woodlands  was  in  the 
vicinity  of  a large  country  town,  where  there  was  much  public 
and  private  gaiety,  often  enlivened  by  military  officers.  Flora 
Leslie  was  permitted  to  go  out  with  one  or  another  chaperone 
of  Mrs.  Piivers’s  selection  and  approval. 

How^  the  young  lady  conducted  herself  in  society,  therefore, 
Mrs.  Eivers  never  knew,  and  any  t?Je  brought  to  her  by  others 
of  her  protegee  she  made  it  a point  to  disbelieve,  from  her 
received  faith  in  the  world’s  proneness  to  injure  and  malign. 
It  so  happened  that  an  affair  more  than  usually  scandalous 
became  so  notorious  as  not  only  to  penetrate  the  walls  of 
Woodlands,  but  the  ears  of  its  mistress,  just  at  the  time  when 
Florence  was  staying  with  her  after  her  father’s  death,  when 
she  of  course  could  not  accompany  Flora  into  visiting  society, 
as  she  had  sometimes  done  before. 

Mrs.  Eivers  never  made  a confusion.  She  quietly  inquired  all 
that  was  necessary,  and  then  charged  the  young  lady  wnth  the 
fact.  Her  distrust  of  the  w^orld  worked  even  here,  and  Flora’s 
protestations  and  assurances  of  no  intentional  ill  might  have 
weighed  against  the  voice  of  rumour,  had  she  not  unfortu- 
nately remembered  that  Florence  had  been  sometimes  Flora’s 
companion  in  society,  and  appealed  to  her  judgment  for  the 
truth  or  falsehood  of  the  charge.  Had  she  ever  observed 
anything  in  her  former  conduct  to  demand  present  belief? 

Now  it  unfortunately  happened  that  it  was  the  very 
witnessing  Flora’s  imprudent  conduct,  when  not  under  Mrs. 
Eivers’s  eye,  which  had  first  awakened  Florence  to  a true 
estimate  of  her  character.  A circumstance  more  degvading  in 
its  nature,  too,  had  the  year  before  come  under  her  knowledge ; 
and  this  appeal  from  Mrs.  Eivers  was,  in  consequence, 
peculiarly  and  painfully  distressing.  In  vain  she  conjured 
Mrs.  Eivers  to  ask  her  nothing ; not  to  compel  her  to  be  that 
most  hateful  of  all  characters,  a talebearer. 

Mrs.  Eivers,  always  obstinate,  became  more  so,  saying  so 
much,  and  that  so  bitterly,  that  Florence  at  last  believed  the 


woman’s  fbiendship. 


75 


truth  would  do  Flora  less  harm  than  the  concealment.  The 
consequence  was  that  Mrs.  Elvers  believed  half  the  reported 
tale,  and  so  far  restrained  Flora,  as  to  declare  that  she  should 
not  go  out  again  till  people  had  forgotten  her  former  conduct, 
and  she  knew  how  to  behave  properly. 

In  outward  appearance,  Flora  was  very  humble  and  sub- 
missive ; protesting  that  all  Mrs.  Elvers  said  was  perfectly 
just,  and  that  she  bore  no  ill  will  to  Florence,  for  she  knew  she 
would  not  have  said  a word  against  her,  unless  compelled. 
Florence  had  no  faith  in  Flora’s  professions — they  were  not 
natural  \ still  her  own  conscience  so  completely  acquitted  her 
of  all  intentional  unkindness,  that  she  never  dreamed  of 
enmity,  and  still  less  of  any  personal  evil  which  might  thence 
accrue.  Perhaps  she  thought  less  of  the  circumstance,  because 
just  then  her  mind  was  preoccupied  by  her  intended  letter  to 
Lady  Ida.  In  former  visits  to  Woodlands  she  had  repeatedly 
spoken  of  this  noble  friend.  Mrs.  Eivers  had  listened  mourn- 
fullj  to  these  artless  eifusions ; still  there  was  something  in 
the  simple  trustfulness  of  Florence  so  beautiful,  so  refreshing, 
that  she  could  not  check  it  by  allusions  to  its  folly.  At'  this 
visit,  however,  she  noticed  that  Florence  was  greatly  changed. 
Not  having  seen  her  for  nearly  a year,  it  was  scarcely  strange 
that  the  deeper  thoughtfulness,  the  decreasing  elasticity  of 
joyousness,  the  calmer,  sadder  mood,  should  strike  her  more 
forcibly  than  it  had  done  Mrs.  Leslie.  It  chanced  that 
Florence  had  been  speaking  of  her  brother — her  anxious  desire 
that  he  should  obtain  more  congenial  employment — and 
Mrs.  Eivers  took  the  opportunity  to  remark — 

‘‘I  should  think  Lady  Ida  St.  Maur  might  assist  your 
wishes,  through  her  husband’s  influence.  Why  not  write  to 
her?” 

Florence  answered  she  had  serious  intentions  of  doing  so, 
and  she  was  very  glad  Mrs.  Eivers  advised  what  her  own 
inclinations  so  earnestly  prompted. 

"‘Advice,  my  dear  child  ; do  not  fancy  I advise  : I cannot 
do  so,  because  I believe  that,  like  all  the  rest  of  the  world, 
Lady  Ida  proves  that  out  of  siglit  is  out  of  mind.  And 
Florence  Leslie  is  now  to  her  as  if  she  had  never  been.” 

Florence  made  no  answer. 

“You  do  not  think  so.  Pity  the  dream  will  not  last.” 

“ Perhaps  it  continues,  dear  madam,  because  I do  not 
expect  too  much.  No  one  feels  more  than  I do  myself  the 


76 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


distance  between  me  and  Lady  Ida ; that,  according  to  the 
rules  of  the  world,  we  can  hardly  ever  mingle  intimately 
again.  And  as  for  pushing  myself  forward,  or  murmuring 
that  my  lot  is  lowlier  than  hers,  I trust  I shall  never  be  so 
tempted  as  to  do.’’ 

And  yet  you  love  her — waste  your  affections  on  one  who, 
you  own  yourself,  can  give  you  so  little  in  return.  Are  you 
not  wilfully  exposing  yourself  to  pain  ? ” 

No ; for  it  is  a pleasure  to  have  one  like  her,  on  whose 
high  and  beautiful  character  affection  and  fancy  can  both  rest. 
I have  seen  enough  of  Lady  Ida  to  respect  her,  felt  enough  of 
her  kindness  to  remember  her  with  gratitude.  Every  message 
I received  from  her  tells  me  that  she  retains  affectionate 
interest  in  my  welfare;  and  as  I expect  so  little,  until  that 
expectation  be  utterly  blighted,  I will  love  her  still.” 

Mrs.  Rivers  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  and  did  not 
answer  for  some  minutes. 

And  how  long  is  it  since  you  have  heard  of  her  ? ” at 
length  she  asked,  abruptly. 

It  was  a difficult  question  to  answer  without  alluding  to  her 
disappointment  in  Emily  Melford,  but  she  simply  replied, 
rather  more  than  a year.” 

And  yet  you  have  the  courage  to  address  her  in  Walter’s 
behalf!” 

I have  ; for  I am  certain,  if  she  cannot  forward  my  wishes 
for  my  brother,  she  will  write,  if  it  be  but  to  say  how  much 
she  feels  with  me  on — on — ” her  voice  painfully  quivered, 
the  loss  of  my  dear  father.” 

And  suppose  that  you  receive  no  answer  to  your  letter  ? 
Will  you  be  unwise  enough  to  think  about  her  still  ? ” 

Florence  was  silent. 

My  letter  may  never  reach  her,  a thousand  chances — ” she 
faltered. 

My  dear,  foolish  child,  if  you  send  your  letter  by  post, 
and  know  her  proper  direction,  you  have  not  the  hairbreadth 
of  a chance  that  it  should  not  reach  her.  Write  to  her  as  you 
propose ; if  she  do  anything  for  your  brother,  you  have  my 
free  permission  to  love,  respect,  and  trust  her  as  much  as  you 
please ; but  if  no  answer  come,  trust  my  experience,  bitter 
though  it  be,  and  be  sure  a year  or  two  years  is  the  longest 
term  that  the  warmest  friendship,  the  most  affectionate 
interest  ever  lasted,  and  wonderful  if  it  last  so  long.” 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


77 


She  left  the  room  as  she  spoke,  and  Florence  let  her  work 
fall  from  her  lap,  and  clasping  her  hands  exclaimed — 

‘‘  If  I may  not  hope — may  not  trust — why  should  I write  at 
all  ? why  expose  myself  to  the  pain  of  feeling,  that  in  one  so 
good,  so  kind,  I have  in  truth  no  interest  now  ? but  if  indeed 
no  answer  come,  surely  I am  too  proud  to  care  for  those  who 
never  think  of  me.” 

But  the  expression  of  her  countenance  belied  her  words,  and 
Flora  Leslie  could  scarcely  restrain  the  delight,  the  triumph  of 
feeling  that  revenge  the  more  violently  desired,  because  so 
long  restrained,  was  in  her  power,  and  cost  what  it  might  to 
compass,  should  be  obtained. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


THE  LETTER  ABSTRACTED  AlsJ)  ITS  SUBSTITUTE. — FLORA  AGAIN. 


One  of  Mrs.  Rivers’s  numerous  particularities  was  excessive 
care  with  regard  to  the  sending  and  receiving  letters,  always 
dispatching  her  confidential  steward  to  receive  them  from  and 
take  them  to  the  office,  which  was  in  Winchester.  The  key 
of  the  letter-bag  was  kept  in  the  steward’s  room,  and  of  her 
letter’s  fate  in  England  Florence  felt  secure,  nor  could  she 
doubt  that  it  would  reach  its  destination. 

Little  could  her  pure  mind  imagine  the  extent  of  meanness 
to  which  hatred  and  revenge  could  lead  her  companion  ; and 
still  less  could  Mrs.  Rivers  believe  that  all  her  precautions 
with  regard  to  the  security  of  letters  should  be  frustrated  by 
the  machinations  of  a girl.  The  key  was  removed  at  dead  of 
night  from  the  steward  s room,  the  bag  unclosed,  the  letter 
abstracted,  the  key  returned  to  its  place,  and,  in  less  than  ten 
minutes.  Flora  Leslie  was  again  seated  in  her  own  apartment,, 
unsuspected  and  unheard.  Her  step  was  too  light,  her 
measures  too  a^rtful  for  discovery ; and  she  sat  beside  the 
hearth,  w^hose  embers  vrere  still  burning,  scarcely  able  ta 
believe  that  the  act  of  villainy,  w^hich  had  caused  her  so  many 
sleepless  nights  to  plan,  had  been  so  easily  accomplished. 

For  a moment  she  hesitated  whether  to  read  before  sho 
burned ; but  it  was  only  for  a moment.  She  tore  open  the 
letter,  and  revelled  as  she  read,  for  every  line  breathed  that 
simple  trusting  affection,  that  respectful  deference,  which,  if 
unanswered,  would  be  so  deeply  wounding. 

With  all  the  feelings  of  gratified  revenge,  Flora  sat  looking 
on  the  letter,  when  she  was  startled  by  a sudden  thought. 
The  steward  w ould  have  to  give  Mrs.  Rivers  an  account  of  the 
postage  which  he  would  have  to  pay  upon  this  foreign  letter. 


WOMANS  FEIENDSHIP. 


79 


and  Florence’s  great  anxiety  would,  of  course,  make  her  in- 
quisitive into  this  matter.  What  was  to  be  done  ? a very  few 
minutes’  thought  sufficed ; for  the  wicked  are  only  too  quick 
at  expedients. 

To  please  Mrs.  Rivers,  Florence  had  once  consented  to  take 
some  lessons  with  Flora  of  one  of  those  professors  of  penman- 
ship taught  in  six  lessons ; and,  in  consequence,  their  hand- 
writing became  so  exactly  similar,  that  with  scarcely  any  effort 
each  could  so  imitate  the  writing  of  the  other,  as  to  render 
the  distinguishing  them  almost  impossible.  It  was  a dangerous 
weapon  for  one  like  Flora,  and  little  did  Florence  imagine  that 
what  she  had  done  for  mere  amusement  was  sedulously  culti- 
vated by  her  companion.  She  had,  in  fact,  already  used  it,  in 
order  that  a correspondence  with  a handsome  young  ensign  in 
the  town,  carried  on  through  a convenient  female  friend, 
might  never  be  traced  so  exactly  to  her  as  to  become  incon- 
venient or  disagreeable ; particularly  as  she  had  taken  the 
liberty  of  substituting  the  name  of  Florence  instead  of  Flora 
Leslie,  by  v/ay  of  signature ; silencing  the  "‘still  small  voice  of 
conscience,”  by  pretending  that  the  great  similarity  of  names 
removed  all  idea  of  dishonour : for  all  ‘ she  knew,  she  might 
have  been  christened  Florence,  and  called  Flora,  as  many 
others  were ; she  certainly  did  no  harm  to  adopt  a prettier 
cognomen ; how  many  girls  engaged  in  a love  correspondence 
adopted  other  names  than  their  own  ! 

^ This  power,  of  course,  presented  an  expedient  in  her  present 
dilemma.  With  some  difficulty  she  concocted  a few  lines,  for 
to  make  composition  appear  like  her  companion’s  was  infinitely 
more  difficult  than  to  imitate  her  writing  ; but  to  send  merely 
a blank  sheet  might,  she  thought,  excite  inquiries,  and  bring 
all  to^  light  too  soon.  A brief  epistle  was  at  length  written, 
alluding  neither  to  Walter  nor  Mr.  Leslie’s  death,  but  breath- 
ing a degree  of  levity  and  frivolity  wholly  unlike  Florence  at 
any  time,  even  in  her  gayest  moods — and  wanting,  besides, 
that  genuine  heartfelt  respect  which  had  ever  pervaded  her 
most  careless  effusions. 

That  Lady  Ida  should  ever  demand  the  meaning  of  this 
unusual  letter  was  too  simple  and  straightforward  a method  of 
proceeding  for  Flora’s  crooked  comprehension  ; she  hoped  and 
believed  it  would  so  offend,  that  Lady  Ida  Avould  never  again 
seek  her  ; ansv/er  by  letter,  of  course  she  would  not,  and 
Florence  would,  in  consequence,  suffer  as  much  as  her  revenge- 


so 


•woman’s  friendship. 


ful  wishes  could  desire.  Carefully  written  on  foreign  paper, 
folded,  sealed,  and  directed  so  like  the  real  one,  that  Florence 
herself  would  have  hesitated  which  to  call  her  own,  Flora 
again  stealthily  made  her  way  to  the  letter-bag,  put  the  letter 
into  it,  and  returned  undiscovered  to  her  own  quarters  ; then, 
deliberately  tearing  Florence’s  letter  into  pieces,  she  committed 
€ach  separately  to  the  flames,  watching  them  burn  till  not  a 
vestige  remained  ; then,  carefully  collecting  the  smouldering 
ashes,  she  flung  them  anew  on  the  fire,  that  no  sign  of  paper 
might  be  found  amongst  the  cinders  the  following  morning. 
This  accomplished,  she  threw  herself  on  her  bed,  whether  to 
sleep  or  not  we  leave  more  imaginative  persons  to  determine. 

‘‘You  are  sure,  quite  sure,  Watson,  the  letter  to  Lady  Ida 
St.  Maur  was  safely  deposited  in  the  post  ? ” Florence  eagerly 
asked  the  steward,  the  moment  of  his  return  ; and  satisfied  by 
his  exact  description  of  the  letter,  which  she  had  purposely 
refrained  from  showing  him,  and  of  the  sum  paid  for  its 
postage,  she  rested  secure  and  happy. 

A month,  nay,  perhaps  two,  might  elapse  before  she  could 
receive  an  answer  ; but  the  letter  was  no  sooner  thought  to  be 
safely  gone,  than  hope  began  her  work  ; and  though  Florence 
thought  she  did  not  hope  at  all,  her  spirits  unconsciously  grew 
light,  and  the  smile  more  often  circled  her  lip.  She  determined 
to  say  nothing  of  having  written,  either  to  her  mother,  Walter, 
or  even  Minie,  in  order  that  the  pleasure  of  reading  them 
Lady  Ida’s  letter  might  be  the  greater. 

Before  her  visit  to  Woodlands  was  over,  how'ever,  her 
thoughts  were  turned  from  her  brother’s  interest  into  a more 
painful  channel.  The  last  blow  on  Mrs.  Eivers’s  in  reality  too 
susceptible  heart  was  struck,  as  Florence  had  long  predicted, 
by  the  orphan  whom  she  had  adopted,  treated,  loved,  and  con- 
fided is  as  her  own  child.  Flora  Leslie  eloped  from  Wood- 
lands, not  with  the  ensign  before  alluded  to,  but  with  a gallant 
major,  who  had  been  persuaded  into  the  belief  that  all  Mrs. 
Eivers’s  large  property  was  so  settled  on  Flora  that  it  could 
not  be  willed  away;  and  that  Flora,  instead  of  being  a portion- 
less orphan,  was  literally  the  rightful  heiress ; though  Mrs. 
Eivers  had  artfully  chosen  to  hush  up  that  matter,  and  act  be- 
nevolence when  she  was  only  doing  justice. 

Thinking  his  charming  Flora  marvellously  ill  used,  and  that 
her  supposed  fortune  would  be  peculiarly  acceptable,  the  major 
made  such  good  use  of  his  time  as  completely  to  exclude  from 


woman’s  friendship. 


81 


her  fickle  imagination  all  recollection  of  the  despairing  ensign, 
whom,  however,  as  we  have  seen,  under  a feigned  handwriting 
and  feigned  name,  she  still  continued  to  encourage.  His 
departure  to  join  his  regiment  at  Malta,  a fortnight  previously, 
bearing  Flora’s  precious  letters  with  him,  and  writing  her  a most 
lachrymose  farewell,  waas  particularly  agreeable  to  the  heartless 
coquette,  who  just  then  wished  him  out  of  her  way — the  major 
ofiering  more  substantial  attractions  in  a handsomer  face,  a 
more  distinguished  manner,  a supposed  fortune,  and  higher 
rank.  The  well-matched  pair,  in  consequence,  departed  one 
fine  morning  in  a coach  and  four  to  Gretna,  where,  it  may 
be  as  well  to  state,  the  nuptial  knot  was  indissolubly  tied. 

The  major,  however,  stormed  himself  hoarse  when  he  dis- 
covered that  his  fair  Flora  was  no  heiress,  but  recovered  a degree 
of  serenity  when  a deed  of  gift  came  most  unexpectedly  from 
Mrs.  Kivers,  securing  to  his  wife  a life  annuity  of  a hundred 
pounds.  That  this  gift  w^as  accompanied  by  a few  stern  lines, 
impossible  to  be  misunderstood,  importing  that  it  was  the  last 
communication  between  Mrs.  Eivers  and  her  ungrateful  'pro- 
tegee, w’ho  would  be  henceforth  blotted  from  her  recollection, 
concerned  not  the  gallant  major  and  his  amiable  bride  one 
tittle,  both  choosing  to  believe,  from  this  unexpected  gene- 
rosity, that  Mrs.  Eivers  would  still  leave  all  her  property  to 
Flora,  that  simply  because  there  seemed  no  one  else  to  whom  it 
could  possibly  be  left. 

To  account  for  Major  Hardwicke’s  preferring  the  Mat  of  an 
elopement  to  honourable  proposals  and  a public  engagement, 
be  it  known  that  he  had  asked  Mrs.  Eivers,  in  all  due  form, 
for  permission  to  address  Miss  Leslie,  but  had  been  peremptorily 
refused,  on  plea  of  his  private  character  not  being  such  as  to 
obtain  him  the  hand  of  any  respectable  young  woman. 

The  rigidity  of  feature,  the  absence  of  all  visible  emotion, 
with  which  Mrs.  Eivers  received  the  tidings  of  Flora’s  flight 
absolutely  terrified  Florence  ; for  she  felt  convinced  it  was  no 
indifference  which  caused  it ; yet  how  to  soothe  she  knew  not, 
for  how  could  she  speak  consolation  where  none  was  demanded  ? 

She  was  treated  as  usual ; the  whole  establishment  went  on 
as  if  nothing  had  occurred  worthy  to  disturb  them  ; but  not 
ten  days  after  the  elopement  Mrs.  Pavers  was  seized  by  a 
serious  illness,  which  hung  over  her  for  weeks,  during  the 
whole  of  which  time  Florence  tended  her  as  a daughter,  with 
a swnetness  of  temper^  a silent  tenderness,  which — though  at 

G 


82 


WOMANS  PEIENDSHIP. 


the  time  to  all  appearance  scarcely  felt — was  remembered  and 
acted  upon  years  afterwards. 

Not  a word  was  breathed  as  to  what  might  have  been  the 
cause  of  that  illness,  either  by  the  sufferer  herself  or  any  of 
those  around  her ; but  when  she  recovered,  she  formed  the  ex- 
traordinary resolution  of  leaving  her  estate  of  Woodlands,  with 
all  its  adjoining  houses  and  lands,  under  charge  of  her  steward 
till  they  could  be  advantageously  let,  and  retiring  she  did  not 
say  wdiere,  and  no  one  had  courage  to  ask.  There  was  no  per- 
suading her  to  forego  this  resolution,  no  arguing  against  it,  for 
she  gave  not  the  slightest  clue  to  any  plan,  except  that  of 
leaving  Woodlands.  She  parted  with  Florence,  kindly  as  her 
stern  nature  would  permit,  and  placed  a pocket-book  contain- 
two  fifty  pound  bank-notes  in  her  hand.  From  that  hour 
Florence  Leslie  heard  no  more  of  Mrs.  Eivers,  knew  nothing  of 
her  place  of  residence,  her  mode  of  living,  possessed  not  a clue 
even  to  her  existence  till  two  years  afterwards,  when  she  was 
strangely  and  most  unexpectedly  recalled. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


SUSPEJS'SE.” BROTHER  AHH  SISTER.— CONEIDEHCE. 


The  illness  of  Mrs.  Pavers  had  so  unavoidahly  lengthened 
Florence  Leslie’s  stay  at  Woodlands,  that  the  two  months,  to 
which  she  had  confidently  looked  as  bringing  an  answer  to  her 
letter,  had  nearly  elapsed.  During  her  absence  Mrs.  Leslie  had 
removed  to  a neat  little  dwelling  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Camberwell;  a convenient  distance  for  Walters  daily  visits  to 
the  metropolis,  and  giving  him  fresher  air  and  greater  quiet- 
ness on  his  return. 

Florence  rejoiced  in  her  change  of  residence.  Her  visit  to 
Woodlands  had  been  one  of  anxiety  and  care.  She  felt  for 
Mrs.  Rivers  infinitely  more  than  that  lady  seemed  to  feel  for 
herself.  Those  high-flown  notions  of  human  nature,  which  in 
former  days  Emily  Melford  used  to  smile  at  and  Lady  Ida*to 
love,  she  still  retained,  and  all  that  occurred  to  shake  her 
belief  in  human  goodness  painfully  depressed  her.  Gladly 
then  she  exchanged  the  cold  solitary  splendour  of  Woodlands 
for  her  mother’s  humble  dwelling.  Here  there  were  not  so 
many  objects  to  recail  her  departed  parent  as  in  their  former 
residence.  He  did  not  haunt  each  room,  each  nook,  till  he 
seemed  almost  palpably  before  them. 

Grief  itself  was  calmed.  They  could  bear  to  think  and 
speak  of  him,  as  one  ''  not  lost,  but  gone  before.”  They  had 
not  sought  to  banish  sorrow,  to  stifle  its  sad  yet  wholesome 
voice  by  seeking  this  world’s  pleasures,  for  they  looked  on 
affliction  as  the  voice  of  their  heavenly  Father  calling  them 
still  more  closely  to  himself.  The  tranquil  routine  of  domestic 
duties  and  enjoyments  was  again  their  own,  and  but  for  one 
engros5jing  care,  Florence  might  even  have  been  happy.  But 
how  could  this  be,  v/hen  days,  weeks,  fa,r  more  than  the  neces- 


84 


WOMANS  FRIENDSHIP. 


sary  period  rolled  on,  and  still  no  answer  l<o  her  letter  came  ; 
no  line  to  say  that  Lady  Ida  was  unchanged,  and  could  feel 
for  Florence  still  ? Her  simple  confidence  had  almost  led  her 
to  believe  the  answer  would  be  waiting  for  her  at  home.  Then 
she  sought  to  console  herself  that  she  had  miscalculated  the 
time ; but  when  more  than  three  months  had  passed,  even  this 
consolation  could  no  longer  avail  her ; and  still  each  day,  each 
hour  found  poor  Florence  in  all  the  bitter  heart  sickness  of 
hope  deferred. 

Of  all  human  trials,  not  the  least  is  the  anxiously  expecting 
a letter  from  a beloved  friend,  involving  matters  of  greater 
moment  than  mere  personal  gratification.  The  first  thought 
in  the  morning,  the  sudden  upspringing  of  hope,  that  ere  the 
night  cometh  suspense  will  be  at  an  end  ; the  bounding  of  the 
heart,  the  flushing  of  the  cheek  at  every  step  and  knock,  when 
it  nears  the  postman’s  hour — becoming  more  and  more  intense 
at  the  sight  of  a letter ; and  then  the  revulsion  of  blood,  the 
sudden  pause  of  every  pulse,  when  all  is  past,  and  it  is  not  the 
letter  we  expect,  that  is  still  to  come,  and  all  which  we  have 
borne,  even  to  the  rush  of  hope,  the  sickness  of  disappointment 
must  be  endured  again.  And  then  the  heavy  sinking  of  the 
soul,  the  pressure  of  tears  upon  the  heart  and  in  the  eye, 
though,  perhaps,  none  falls,  when  night,  with  her  silence  and 
deep  shadows  and  still  solitude,  comes  to  tell  us  another  day 
is  gone,  and  the  morning’s  dream  is  vain. 

And  all  this  Florence  had  to  bear  in  silence  and  alone,  for  she 
had  kept  her  resolution,  and  told  none  that  she  had  written  : 
she  rejoiced  that  she  had  not,  for  to  have  listened  to  reproach 
cast  upon  one  so  dearly  loved,  would  but  have  increased 
her  burden.  She  still  heard  Minie,  often  her  mother,  allude 
to  Lady  Ida  in  terms  of  fond  remembrance,  and  compelled 
herself  to  echo  Minie’s  artless  and  oft-repeated  wish,  that  she 
were  again  in  England,  to  be  as  kind  to  Florence  as  she  had 
been  before,  even  while  her  own  heart  felt  breaking  beneath 
the  thought,  that  to  her  Lady  Ida  was  as  nothing  now ; and 
that  her  return  to  England  could  bring  but  increase  of  pain. 

But  it  was  not  the  mere  suffering  of  disappointed  friendship. 
She  could  bear  her  own  sorrow  ; but  her  Walter,  her  idolized 
brother.  In  vain  she  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  even  had 
she  heard  from  Lady  Ida,  her  brother’s  interests  might  not 
have  beens  erved.  She  could  not  believe  Lord  Edmund’s  power 
was  so  limited,  and  each  week,  each  month  which  passed, 


WOMANS  FRIENDSHIP. 


85 


leaving  yet  deeper  hectic  or  more  livid  paleness  on  Walter’s 
cheek — more  fragile  beauty  on  his  slight  form — increased  the 
sufferings  she  endured. 

It  was  strange  that  these  various  signs  of  waning  health,  so 
noticed  by  her,  should  pass  unseen  by  their  ever  fond  and 
-anxious  mother.  Yet  so  it  was.  Mrs.  Leslie  was  deceived. 
Walter’s  unwavering  cheerfulness  in  his  mother’s  presence,  the 
ardour  with  which,  after  eight  or  nine  hours  passed  mechanic- 
ally at  the  desk,  he  devoted  himself  to  his  favourite  studies, 
coining  mental  gold  from  every  moment,  seemed  to  satisfy  and 
reassure  her.  When  wearied  with  his  daily  toil,  the  hours 
passed  in  study  appeared  so  to  revive  him,  that  all  weariness 
vanished  before  he  retired  to  rest ; animation  glowed  on  his 
cheek  and  sparkled  in  his  eye,  strength  seemed  to  brace  his 
limbs,  and  his  voice  grew  almost  joyous.  The  deceptive  dream 
was  strengthened  by  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Leslie  saw  her  son  but 
a few  minutes  in  her  bedroom  before  he  went  out  in  the  morn- 
ing. Florence  gave  him  his  early  breakfast.  Florence  it  was 
who  noticed  the  excessive  languor,  the  deadly  paleness,  some- 
times even  the  dewy  moisture  on  his  brow  when  he  would 
descend  from  his  own  room,  as  if  sleep,  instead  of  refreshing 
and  strengthening,  had  weakened  him  well  nigh  to  exhaus- 
tion ; and  at  times,  so  subduing  was  the  accompanying 
depression,  that  his  struggles  to  smile  away  his  sister’s  anxious 
looks  would  end  in  stifled  hysteric  sobs.  But  yet,  when  they 
met  again  at  dinner,  there  was  no  trace  of  this  ; his  smile,  his 
caresses  greeted  his  fond  mother  as  was  their  wont,  and  night 
brought  anew  its  excitement  and  its  joy. 

The  bedrooms  of  the  brother  and  sister  were  separated  by  a 
thin  partition,  one  of  whose  small  square  panels  slipped  up  and 
down,  forming  a loophole  of  verbal  communication  between 
the  rooms  which  were  on  the  upper  floor  entirely  by  them- 
selves. 

It  was  a warm  night  in  May,  and  Florence,  after  struggling 
with  the  sad  thoughts  which  would  intrude  when  she  was  alone 
(for  though  six  months  had  elapsed  since  she  had  written, 
there  still  were  times  when  she  almost  seemed  to  hope),  had 
succeeded,  by  full  an  hour’s  serious  reading,  in  obtaining  a 
partial  calm.  She  was  roused  by  hearing  the  chimes  of  an 
adjoining  church  tell  half  an  hour  after  midnight,  and  startled 
at  finding  it  so  late,  she  hastily  rose  to  prepare  for  bed. 
Glancing  towards  the  panel,  she  saw  it  had,  as  often  happened, 


86 


woman’s  friendship. 


slid  down  of  itself,  and  she  approached  to  close  it  softljr,, 
imagining  her  brother  slept.  One  glance  undeceived  her. 
Through  the  light  drapery  of  the  bed  she  saw  him  bending 
over  a small  table,  evidently  engaged  in  writing.  She  watched 
the  rapid  movement  of  his  hand ; fast,  faster  yet,  as  if  it  strove 
to  keep  pace  with  the  rush  of  thoughts  within,  until  at  length 
he  raised  his  head;  and  oh,  what  a glow  of  beauty  that 
countenance  disclosed ! He  passed  his  hand  feebly  across  his 
brow,  and  then  again  bent  over  the  paper.  Physical  power- 
had  departed,  and  the  flush  w^as  succeeded  by  a paleness  as  of 
death.  Florence  flew  to  his  side,  she  threw  her  arms  around 
his  neck,  her  tears  of  sympathy  falling  on  his  cheek. 

Walter  started  as  if  found  in  guilt ; but  then  as  if  he  could 
not  meet  her  half  reproachful,  half  sorrowful  glance,  he 
passionately  exclaimed — 

Florence,  my  own  Florence ! do  not  reproach  me,  do  not 
tell  me  that  I should  not  do  this,  that  I am  wasting  the  life 
pledged  to  be  devoted  to  you  all — tell  me  not  this,  I cannot 
bear  it  now.” 

I will  not,  Walter ! only  trust  me,  as  one  who  can  feel 
with  you  and  for  you,  in  every  pang  and  every  thought ; yes,, 
even  to  the  deep,  but  oh ! how  dangerous  joys  of  these  mid- 
night watchings ! Would  that  I could  aid  you  as  I love  ! 
You  would  have  no  sorrow  then.” 

She  folded  closely  and  still  more  fondly  to  him ; and  long 
and  mournfully  interesting  was  the  conversation  which  ensued. 
Never  were  two  hearts  more  capable  of  understanding  each 
other ; and  Walter  s overcharged  mind  felt  inexpressibly 
relieved,  as  he  poured  forth  the  whole  torrent  of  thought  and 
feeling  into  her  sympathising  ear.  Yet  there  was  no  complaint,, 
no  murmur  that  his  lot  in  life  was  cast  so  differently  for  him 
from  that  he  would  have  cast  for  himself.  But  to  check  the 
torrent  of  poetry  within  him  was  impossible.  He  had  tried  to 
refrain  entirely  from  the  use  of  either  pen  or  pencil,  thinking 
such  neglect  the  best  method  of  reconciling  himself  to  his 
more  distasteful  duties  ; but  the  morbid  state  into  which  he 
sank  soon  proved  the  fallacy  of  the  attempt,  and  he  resumed 
them.  Elasticity  and  happiness  appeared  in  consequence  to 
return,  and  he  could  not  believe  that  his  health  was  suffering, 
for  at  least  he  now  slept  calmly  ; when  before  he  had  passed 
night  after  night  in  feverish  wakefulness,  or  in  such  sleep  that, 
it  was  worse  than  waking. 


WOMAl^’S  FRIENDSHIP. 


87 


“ They  think  me  a poor-spirited,  romantic  fool,”  he  added, 
‘‘because  I cannot  join  in  the  sole  ambition  which  seems  to 
engross  my  companions.  Oh,  Florence,  you  know  not  how  I 
hate  that  word  gold  1 How  I sicken  at  the  constant  thought 
of  interest — wealth — its  omnipotence!  as  if  neither  virtue, 
nor  goodness,  nor  beauty  could  exist  without  it.  If  I could 
but  associate  with  higher  and  nobler  minds,  the  drudgery  of 
a distasteful  employment  could  easily  be  borne.” 

‘•'But  why  heed  the  mere  expression  of  worldliness,  my 
Walter  ? Have  you  not  that  within  you  raising  you  far  above 
such  petty  minds  ? ” 

“No Florence,  no!  the  gift  of  poetry  was  never  yet  sufficient 
so  to  elevate  the  poet  as  to  render  him  invulnerable  to  the 
bitter  shafts  of  more  worldly  natures.  He  must  be  appreciated 
by  the  gifted  and  the  good,  or  he  can  have  no  security,  no 
confidence  in  his  own  powers.  He  dares  not  dream  of  genius 
till  it  is  pronounced  his  own.  He  dares  not  believe  that  his 
mind  may  produce  immortal  fruit,  till  a world  has  said  it  ; 
and  therefore  he  is  so  exposed  to  those  petty  trials  which  fret 
and  vex  the  spirit  far  more  than  one  weighty  blow.” 

“But  influence  may  become  your  own,  dearest  Walter.  We 
cannot  know  for  certain  that  this  lawsuit  will  really  be  decided 
against  us,  and  if  gained — ” 

“ Florence,  I dare  not  think  of  it.  God  know^s,  I value  not 
fortune  nor  station  for  aught  but  the  good  it  might  bestow  on 
others — that  having  gold,  I might  not  tliinlz  about  it.  That  I 
might  associate  with  those  who,  not  having  to  seek  it,  might 
surely  afford  to  devote  their  mental  energies  to  some  nobler 
object.  Italy,  too,  floats  before  me  in  the  sweet  dream  of  in- 
dependence— Italy,  with  its  beautiful  nature,  its  glorious  art  : 
and  I have  pictured  our  wandering  there,  you,  dearest  Florence, 
to  satisfy  your  early  longing,  I,  to  study  in  those  galleries  so 
full  of  genius — study,  venerate,  and  at  a respectful  distance, 
follow.  I might,  indeed,  become  an  artist  then.  Painting  and 
Poetry  should  go  hand  in  hand  : and  then — then — but,  oh, 
how  dare  I think  of  these  things,  when  all  may  be  a blank  !” 

And  as  Florence  looked  on  the  flushed  cheek  and  kindling 
eye,  on  the  lip  parched  and  dry  with  extreme  excitement,  she 
felt,  indeed,  that  such  dreams  were  better  banished.  Walter 
thought  that  they  were,  but  was  it  natural  that  they  should 
be  ? Florence  knew  too  well  the  silent  sway  of  hope.  A clock 
striking  two  roused  them  from  the  brief  pause  which  had. 


88 


WOMAN  S .FRIENDSHIP. 


followed  Walter’s  last  words,  and  clasping  his  arms  round  her, 
he  bade  her  go  to  bed,  and  God  bless  her  ! he  had  robbed  her 
of  her  best  sleep,  but  she  knew  not  the  comfort  that  hour  had 
been  to  him. 

^ Wou  would  tell  me  something  more,  dearest  Walter  ? Do 
not  hesitate : I am  not  in  the  least  sleepy.  Why  will  you  not 
speak  ? ” 

''  Because  my  question  is  such  an  idle  one.  When  do  Lord 
Edmund  and  Lady  Ida  return  to  England  ? ” 

He  felt  his  sister’s  hand  tremble  in  his  own,  and  to  his 
astonishment,  he  saw  her  cheek  pale,  and  her  lip  so  quiver, 
that  for  a minute  she  could  not  answer. 

I cannot  tell  you,  Walter ; you  know  Emily  Melford  has 
long  since  given  up  my  correspondence,  and  I only  heard 
regularly  of  Lady  Ida  through  her.” 

‘"Ah,  true;  but  you  have  written  sometimes.  Have  you 
since — my  poor  father — ,”  he  stopped. 

Once,”  she  replied  hurriedly,  and  almost  inarticulately ; 

but  why  do  you  ask  ? ” 

I will  tell  you,  dearest ; but  do  not  laugh  at  me.  I have 
fancied,  foolishly  perhaps,  that  years  of  absence  would  make 
no  difference  in  Lady  Ida,  and  that  through  your  friendship  I 
might  become  acquainted  with  her  husband  ; and  all  I hear  of 
him,  all  the  world  speaks  of  him,  distinguishes  him  for  talent, 
genius,  and  yet  more  for  benevolence.  Oh,  Florence,  what 
might  not  such  a friend  be  to  me  ! My  own  dear  sister,  what 
have  I said?” 

Vainly  the  poor  girl  struggled  to  suppress  or  at  least  conceal 
her  emotion.  She  felt  as  if  the  whole  extent  of  bitterness 
and  disappointment  had  not  been  felt  till  that  moment,  and 
her  head  sank  on  her  brother’s  shoulder  with  a burst  of 
uncontrolled  tears. 

Had  Walter  been  a philosopher,  he  would  have  endeavoured 
to  conquer  her  grief  by  sage  reasoning.  He  was  a poet,  and, 
in  consequence,  owned  the  potency  of  the  law'  of  feeling  over 
and  above  that  of  reason.  And  so  he  simply  drew  her  closely 
to  him,  kissing  away  the  burning  tears,  and  w^hispering  words 
of  such  earnest  tenderness  that  they  only  flowed  the  faster. 

My  poor  Florence  ! Bless  you  for  thus  thinking,  thus 
writing  for  me.  Had  your  affectionate  eloquence  been  suc- 
cessful, I could  not  have  felt  it  more.  Do  not  weep  thus. 
There  may  be  some  mistake,  some  extraordinary  chance  acting 


woman’s  friendship. 


89 


against  us,  which  will  all  be  made  clear  in  time.  I will  not 
believe  that  Lady  Ida  is  so  changed.  It  is  impossible  : trust 
me,  she  will  give  you  cause  to  love  her  more  fondly  yet.  Now 
go  to  rest,  my  own  sweet  sister.  We  shall  both  be  happier  for 
this  night  s pain,  for  we  need  no  longer  weep  or  smile  alone.” 

And  he  was  right.  They  were  happier.  A new  spirit  per- 
vaded Walter  s duties  and  pursuits.  A poet,  to  be  happy, 
must  have  sympathy,  intelligence,  enthusiasm,  which  will 
reflect  back  and  encourage  his  own ; and  in  Florence,  Walter 
realized  all  these  things.  Her  exquisite  taste,  her  intuitive 
conception  of  the  true  and  beautiful,  allowed  him  to  confide 
in  her  judgment,  to  improve  from  her  suggestions;  and  to  her 
inexpressible  happiness,  she  found  that  from  that  night  he  was 
more  like  himself.  For  her  own  feelings,  they  were  strangely 
soothed  by  that  involuntary  confidence  ; conquered,  indeed, 
they  were  not,  for  she  could  not  share  Walter  s belief.  From 
change  or  unkindness  in  Lady  Ida,  she  turned  sorrowingly  away 
as  impossible  ; but  she  thought  circumstances,  difference  of 
station,  raised,  and  must  for  ever  raise,  an  insuperable  barrier 
between  them. 


CHAPTER  XVL 


TRUTH  AND  FALSEHOOD. 


Some  three  months  after  the  conclusion  of  our  last  chapter^ 
and  consequently  nearly  nine  from  the  affairs  narrated  at 
Woodlands,  two  ladies  were  seated  together  in  the  balcony  of 
a most  beautiful  villa  in  the  environs  of  Rome.  It  was  Lady 
St.  Maur,  and  her  mother-in-law,  Lady  Helen.  Time  had 
made  little  difference  in  the  former ; the  girl  had,  in  truth, 
merged  into  the  woman  ; the  flower  was  beautiful  as  the  bud 
had  promised.  The  balcony  where  they  sat  led  by  a flight  of 
steps,  ornamented  by  a light  arabesque  balustrade,  to  the 
garden,  whose  innumerable  flowers  sent  forth  such  luscious 
scents  as  to  perfume  the  air,  almost  overpoweringly,  in  the  still 
calm  of  evening.  Rome,  on  her  seven  hills,  lay  on  their  left, 
absolutely  imbedded  in  a glow  of  crimson  light ; her  remains  of 
antiquity,  her  walls  and  towers,  the  crumbling  but  eloquent 
shadows  of  the  past,  were  softened  into  such  increase  of 
beauty,  that  one  might  almost  fancy  the  seat  of  ancient 
empire  restored  to  v/hat  it  had  been.  Around,  below,  and 
above  them  were  vineyards,  with  their  twining  leaves  and 
blushing  fruit,  interspersed  with  all  that  luxuriance  of  foliage, 
richness  of  scenery,  clearness  of  atmosphere,  and  gorgeousness 
of  sky,  so  peculiar  to  Italy.  Nature  never  loses  by  constant 
and  intimate  association  : the  more  we  love  her,  the  more  she 
repays  that  love — the  more  we  acknowledge  her  power,  the 
more  thrilling  and  deliciously  she  infuses  herself  into  our  very 
being,  giving  us  a buoyancy  of  spirit  that,  however  restrained 
and  hidden,  will  never  entirely  depart,  but  burst  afresh  into 
life  and  joy  with  the  very  next  view,  and  consciousness  of 
that  Divinity  from  whom  it  sprang. 


'woman’s  FIIIENDSIIIP. 


91 


Books  and  work,  the  pen  and  pencil,  were  the  usual  employ- 
ments of  the  female  inmates  of  that  peaceful  spot ; but  this 
evening  their  conversa.tion  had  turned  on  the  strange  chances 
of  life  and  death  which  had  just  given  to  Sir  Edmund  St.  Maur 
that  barony  which,  when  Lady  Ida  Villiers  married  him,  it 
had  seemed  impossible  that  he  should  have  lived  so  long  as  to 
obtain.  The  last  of  the  title,  a warm  friend  and  admirer  of 
Sir  Edmund,  had  left  him  sole  guardian  of  his  only  child,  a 
daughter,  then  under  the  care  of  relatives  in  England,  with 
the  earnest  request  that,  if  they  ever  returned  to  live  in  their 
native  land,  Lady  Ida  w^ould  herself  superintend  her  education, 
and  introduce  her  under  no  auspices  but  her  own — a request 
unhesitatingly  granted  by  his  friend.  Their  conversation  was 
interrupted  by  visitors,  amongst  whom  was  a lady  lately 
arrived  from  England,  who,  in  course  of  conversation  on  that 
country,  chanced  to  remark  that  she  had  known  little  of 
London  topics  of  interest,  having  resided  some  few  months 
before  leaving  England  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Winchester, 
with  an  invalid  friend. 

‘^Winchester !”  Lady  St.  Maur  repeated  with  interest ; and 
after  a moment’s  hesitation  she  asked  if  Lady  Blandford 
chanced  to  know  Woodlands  and  its  inmates — if  she  had  ever 
met  with  a Miss  Leslie,  sometimes  staying  with  Mrs.  Rivers. 
The  lady  looked  astonished  at  the  last  question — forgetting  to 
answer  the  first,  in  her  surprise  that  such  a person  as  report 
had  3;)ictured  Miss  Leslie  could  in  any  way  interest  Lady  St. 
Maur — briefly  alluding  to  the  circumstances  which,  as  we 
already  know,  had  transpired  to  the  discredit  of  Flora  Leslie, 
adding,  that  she  understood  an  elopement  had  concluded  the 
affair — the  more  scandalous,  as  the  young  lady  had  not  two 
months  before  lost  her  father. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  Lady  St.  Maur,  equally  with  her 
visitor,  knew  nothing  of  the  existence  of  two  Miss  Leslies, 
bearing  the  same  or  nearly  the  same  Christian  name.  In 
Florence’s  early  communications  with  her  friend,  she  had 
often  mentioned  Mrs.  Pavers  and  her  beautiful  estate,  but, 
from  the  total  want  of  sympathy  with  and  entire  disapproval 
of  Flora’s  character,  had  never  mentioned  her.  Therefore 
that  Lady  Blandford  could  allude  to  any  one  but  Florence 
was  not  likely,  more  especially  as  she  mentioned  her  father’s 
death,  which  Lady  St.  Maur  had  seen  in  the  newspapers 
about  that  time  ; although,  from  no  allusion  being  made  to  it 


m 


woman’s  peiendship. 


in  the  last  letter  she  had  received  from  Florence,  she  had 
hoped  it  was  not  true.  This  last  letter,  we  need  scarcely 
-state,  was  the  false  one  substituted  by  Flora,  instead  of  that 
which  had  caused  Florence  so  much  pain  to  write.  Its  strange 
•and  frivolous  style  had  annoyed  and  perplexed  Lady  St.  Maur, 
who,  notwithstanding  her  many  new  ties  and  enjoyments,  and 
the  various  claims  on  her  time  and  affection  from  friends  of 
her  own  rank  in  England,  yet  retained  an  affectionate  interest 
in  the  young  girl  who  had  so  loved  her.  She  had  often  taxed 
Emily  Melford,  during  the  last  year,  with  never  alluding  to 
Florence  ; asking  questions  concerning  her,  which  Emily 
cither  left  unanswered,  or  by  acknowledging  that  she  never 
heard  from  her  now,  contrived  to  leave  the  impression  that 
Florence  had  ceased  to  care  for  the  correspondence,  and  so  it 
had  been  broken  off. 

Knowing  the  indolence  and  capricious  character  of  her 
cousin.  Lady  St.  Maur  had,  however,  always  thought  her  the 
more  to  blame,  until  she  received  this  incomprehensible 
letter  ; when  the  thought  would  enter  her  mind  that  Florence 
must  be  very  greatly  changed.  She  compared  the  letter  with 
the  last  she  had  had  from  her  nearly  a year  previous.  The 
wTiting,  the  signature  were  so  exactly  similar,  that  it  seemed 
not  possible  it  could  have  been  written  by  any  other  person, 
wKich  fancy,  wild  as  she  felt  it  was.  Lady  St.  Maur  had 
entertained.  Her  husband  had  glanced  over  it,  merely  re- 
marking, if  Miss  Leslie  could  not  write  more  respectfully,  she 
had  better  not  write  at  all,  and  had  thought  no  more  about 
it,  till  the  subject  was  somewhat  painfully  recalled.  Lady 
St.  Maur,  however,  could  not  dismiss  it  so  easily.  About  a 
month  before  she  had  thus  heard  (as  she  supposed)  from 
Florence,  she  herself  had  written  to  her  feelingly  and  affec- 
tionately, sympathising  with  her  on  her  father’s  death  ; this 
letter  she  sent  to  Emily  Melford,  requesting  her  to  direct 
it  properly,  and  forward  it.  Florence’s  non-allusion  to  it 
excited  the  belief  that  she  had  not  yet  received  it ; and  that 
when  she  did,  even  if  its  condolence  were  not  necessary, 
yet  still  that  she  would  write  again,  and  more  like  herself. 
Months,  however,  passed,  and  she  received  no  reply,  and  there- 
fore Lady  Blandford’s  communication  but  too  painfully  re- 
called the  supposition  that  Florence  was  not  only  changed, 
but  was,  in  fact,  no  longer  worthy  of  her  remembrance  or 
regard.  Yet,  when  she  recalled  the  beautiful  promise  which 


woman’s  feiendship. 


93 


her  youth  had  given,  how  could  this  be?  What  circumstances^ 
what  temptations  could  have  had  such  power?  And  such 
distressed  perplexity  did  her  countenance  express,  that  when  her 
husband  joined  her  he  noticed  it,  and  tenderly  inquired  the 
reason.  The  expression  with  which  he  listened  startled  her. 

You  have  heard  something  before  to  this  effect,  Edmund,” 
she  exclaimed,  and  you  have  not  told  me,  fearing  to  wound 
me.  What  is  it  ? I wmuld  much  rather  know  the  truth.” 

His  tale  was  soon  told.  While  at  Malta,  where  he  had 
been  several  weeks  on  some  political  duty,  he  became  intimate 
with  several  of  the  officers,  and  had  been  prevailed  upon  one 
day  to  join  them  at  dinner  in  their  mess-room.  There  had  been 
lately  a new  arrival  of  troops  from  England,  the  officers  of 
which,  fresh  from  the  gaieties  of  a large  county  town — which 
proved  to  be  Winchester — became  rather  more  communicative 
as  the  wine  circled  briskly  round,  than  under  other  circum- 
stances they  might  themselves  have  wished.  The  conversation 
soon  became  riotous,  and  loud  and  foremost  amongst  all  other 
names,  as  the  belle  and  the  coquette  of  the  season.  Lord  St. 
Maur  had  heard  the  name  of  a Flora  or  Florence  Leslie. 
Startled  and  annoyed,  for  never  hearing  that  name  save  from 
the  lips  of  his  wife,  it  seemed  to  have  imbibed  a portion  of 
her  own  purity  and  excellence.  He  listened  still  more  atten- 
tively : he  heard  them  mention  Woodlands,  and  its  misan- 
thropic mistress,  Mrs.  Livers,  and  felt  convinced  it  must  be 
the  same,  Florence’s  last  letter  to  his  wife  flashing  on  his 
memory  as  still  stronger  confirmation.  He  heard  her  name 
bandied  from  lip  to  lip,  sometimes  contemptuously,  sometimes 
admiringly,  but  always  most  disreputably  to  its  object.  One 
young  man — Ensign  Camden — swore  to  her  constancy,  and 
challenged  any  one  who  dared  deny  that  he  was  her  preferred 
lover,  offering  to  bring  wuutten  proofs  in  the  last  letter  he  had 
received  from  her  before  he  had  quitted  England;  and  drawing 
it  from  his  pocket  as  he  spoke,  it  was  seized  upon,  with  a burst 
of  uproarious  laughter,  and  in  mock-heroic  tones  read  aloud 
for  the  benefit  of  the  whole  company.  Lord  St.  Maur  had 
been  near  enough  to  notice  both  the  handwriting  and  the 
signature,  and  had  unhesitatingly  recognised  both.  Camden, 
indignant  at  this  publicity  of  what  he  vow^ed  was  a treasure 
too  precious  for  any  gaze  but  his  own,  had  become  more  and 
more  enraged,  drawing  his  sword  at  length  upon  all  who 
ventured  to  approach  him,  till  ho  was  dragged  off  to  his 


94 


woman’s  friendship. 


quarters ; and  Lord  St.  Maiir,  in  utter  disgust  at  tlie  scene,  at 
length  effected  a retreat,  not,  however,  before  he  heard  many 
voices  declare  that  love-letters  from  Miss  Leslie  were  no  proof 
of  preference,  as  every  unmarried,  good-looking  officer  of 
Winchester  had,  at  one  time  or  other,  received  them. 

Lord  St.  Maur  had  purposely  refrained  from  telling  this  to 
his  wife,  waiting  till  she  might  hear  again  from  Florence,  and 
thus  clear  up  what  certainly  appeared  a mystery.  He  found  it 
difficult  to  believe  that  any  person  who  could  act  thus  could 
ever  have  been  sufficiently  worthy  as  to  attract,  and  indeed 
rivet.  Lady  Ida  s notice.  But  when  time  passed,  and  still  no 
letter  came,  it  argued  unfavourably,  and  Lady  Blandford’s  in- 
formation, to  Lord  St.  Maur’s  mind,  so  removed  all  remaining 
doubt,  tho.t  he  entreated  his  wife  to  banish  Florence  from  her 
recollection,  as  wholly  unworthy  of  her  continued  regard. 
But  this  vras  impossible.  Instead  of  convincing  her  of 
Florence’s  utter  unworthiness.  Lady  St.  Maurs  previous 
supposition  returned,  that  some  mysterious  agency  was  at 
work,  and  that  the  strange  letter  she  had  received  was  not 
from  the  Florence  she  had  loved,  and  that  it  was  not  to  her 
these  disgraceful  rumours  alluded.  That  there  should  indeed 
exist  two  persons  of  exactly  the  same  name,  whose  hand- 
writing was  so  similar,  did  appear  unlikely,  but  yet  not  so 
impossible  as  such  a total  change  in  Florence.  She  did  not 
speak  much  on  the  subject,  because  she  saw’  that  neither  her 
husband  nor  Lady  Helen  could  feel  wuth  her;  nor  was  it  likely, 
as  they  had  never  knovm  Florence,  that  they  should  ; but  her 
active  mind  could  not  rest  satisfied  without  making,  one  effort 
to  clep.r  up  the  mystery.  She  knew  it  wms  useless  to  write  to 
Emily  Melford,  wffiose  representations  that  it  was  Florence’s 
fault  which  had  occasioned  the  cessation  of  their  intercourse 
now  involuntarily  returned  as  proofs  strong  in  confirmation  of 
the  reports  against  her.  She  therefore  wrote  to  Lady  Mary 
Villiers,  requesting  her  to  make  every  inquiry  concerning 
Florence  Leslie,  purposely  avoiding  all  allusion  to  these 
reports.  Anxiously  she  waited  the  reply  ; but  when  it  came, 
it  told  nothing  she  wished  to  hear.  Lady  Mary,  through  her 
father’s  confidential  steward,  had  made  every  inquiry  concerning 
the  Leslies  in  very  many  quarters  of  London  without  any  success. 
The  house  wiiich  they  had  formerly  occupied  in  Beriiard-street 
was  in  the  hands  of  strangers — the  very  landlord  changed  ; 
her  brother  himself  had  undertaken  the  inquiries  at  Win- 


woman’s  FRIE^TDSIIIP. 


95 


Chester,  but  there  the  result  had  been  more  confused  and 
unsatisfactory  still ; so  much  so,  indeed,  that  she  hardly  liked 
to  write  it,  for  how  even  to  make  it  intelligible  in  a brief 
detail  she  scarcely  knew. 

It  appeared  that  a Miss  Leslie,  whose  Christian  name  was 
Florence,  or  Flora,  rumour  could  not  agree  which,  was  con- 
stantly residing  with  Mrs.  Pdvers  at  Woodlands ; some  said 
she_was  an  orphan,  others  that  her  parents  were  both  living 
in  London,  that  she  had  made  herself  notorious  at  Winchester 
by  the  grossest  impropriety  of  conduct,  causing,  at  length, 
Mrs.  Rivers  to  restrain  her  to  Woodlands,  but  while  there  she 
still  continued  her  intrigues.  So  far  all  the  rumours  agreed, 
but  after  that  they  differed,  some  declaring  an  elopement  had 
actually  taken  place,  and  the  7/oung  lady  was  united  to  a 
gallant  Major  Hardwicke,  and  resided  with  him  on  the 
Continent ; others,  allowing  the  truth  of  the  elopement, 
averred  that  Mrs.  Rivers’s  steward  had  pursued  and  overtaken 
the  fugitives  before  the  completion  of  the  ceremony,  and 
conveyed  Miss  Leslie  back  to  Woodlands,  whence  she  was 
speedily  sent  under  strict  ward  to  her  widowed  mother. 

The  only  positive  facts  then  were  these,  that  Mrs.  Rivers 
had  quitted  Woodlands,  which  was  now  occupied  by  strangers, 
amd  that  Miss  Leslie  had  never  appeared  at  Winchester  again. 

What  they  mean,  or  to  whom  they  relate,  I leave  you  to 
determine,  my  dear  Ida,”  wrote  Lady  Mary,  in  conclusion, 

but  if  to  the  Florence  Leslie  of  your  creation,  we  must 
never  speak  of  reading  character  again.  I should  fear,  as  you 
have  not  heard  from  her  so  long,  it  is  shame,  not  pride,  which 
keeps  her  silent.  Fortunately,  you  have  too  many  nearer  and 
dearer  ties  for  this  to  affect  you  much,  but  it  is  very  disagree- 
able ; it  lowers  our  opinion  of  human  nature,  and  creates  a 
doubt  even  of  the  fairest  promise ; and  worse  still,  it  gives 
such  a.  triumph  to  worldly  unromantic  people.” 

So  wrote  Lady  Mary,  and  confused  and  contradictory  as  the 
reports  still  were,  yet  there  was  no  mention,  no  hint  as  to 
there  being  two  Miss  Leslies.  Ida  had  not  asked  the  question, 
imagining  Lady  Mary’s  reply  v/ould  make  it  evident.  Our 
readers  know  enough  of  the  truth  to  remove  at  a glance  all 
that  was  false ; but,  unfortunately.  Lord  St.  Maur’s  family 
could  not  do  so,  therefore  decided  as  presumptive  evidence 
warranted. 


96 


woman’s  feiendship. 


The  subject  was  never  resumed ; Florence  Leslie’s  name- 
never  mentioned.  Lady  St.  Maur  could  not  defend  and  believe 
as  her  own  heart  still  prompted,  for  she  had  no  contrary  proof 
to  bring  forward.  ''  Oh,  that  Florence  would  but  write  again,” 
she  felt  continually,  and  thus  disprove  the  scandal,  or  enable 
her  to  ask  its  explanation.”  But  Florence  did  not  write, 
neither  then  nor  during  the  whole  period  of  Lord  St.  Maur’s 
residence  abroad.  What  effect  all  this  had  on  Lady  St.  Maur, 
and  its  consequences  to  Florence,  we  shall  discover  in  a future 
page. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


THE  CLOUD  BURSTS. 


The  blow,  which  Mrs.  Leslie  had  long  expected,  at  length  fell. 
The  suit  was  decided  against  them  ; and  so  heavily  had  the 
attendant  expenses  accumulated,  that  all  the  little  fortune  of 
Walter  and  Florence  was  sacrificed  to  defray  them  ; including 
also  the  £100  which  Mrs.  Rivers  had  bestowed,  and  which 
Florence  secretly  reserved,  in  case  of  such  emergency. 

Painful  was  the  emotion  of  Mrs.  Leslie,  when,  on  closely 
questioning  her  son  as  to  the  debts  accumulated  and  means  of 
payment,  the  whole  truth  was  discovered. 

‘'My  children,  my  beloved  children!  why  have  you  done 
this  was  all  that,  for  the  first  moment,  she  could  exclaim. 
“ Florence  ! Walter ! both  so  little  fitted  to  struggle  with 
penury  and  labour.  Indeed,  indeed,  it  must  not  be  !” 

“ Indeed,  it  must  be,  mother  \ ' and  Florence,  kneeling  by 
her  mother’s  couch,  covered  her  hand  with  kisses,  while 
Walter  continued — 

“ Unfitted  for  labour ! Mother,  do  not  wrong  us  thus. 
We  shall  do  well  enough,  for  we  have  still  affection ; nor 
shall  we  be  grieved  by  seeing  you  in  want  of  those  little  luxuries 
which,  purchased  by  our  labour,  I know  you  would  refuse. 
For  myself,  happily,  I have  no  pursuit  to  seek ; every  year 
increases  my  salary — and  there  may  come  a day,  dearest 
mother,  when  I may  give  you  a more  luxurious  home ; and 
Florence,  our  owm  Florence,  need  not  work.” 

“ Walter  1”  murmured  his  mother,  grasping  his  hand  as  he 
bent  over  her,  “ do  not  speak  of  another  home  ; I need  no 
other,  with  my  children  around  me.  But  Florence,  my  sweet 
Florence,  must  she  leave  me  ? Is  there  no  privation  we  may 
welcome,  no  comfort  we  may  resign,  to  save  her  this  ?” 

H 


98 


woman’s  friendship. 


shall  not  be  far  severed,  dearest  mother,”  answered 
Florence,  making  a strong  effort  to  subdue  the  choking  sob. 

A trifling  pittance  will  content  me  ; and  if  one  of  us  must 
leave  you — better,  far  better  I than  Minie.” 

And  why,  Florie,  dear  ? I do  not  see  that  at  all.  Nay,  I 
am  much  better  fitted  to  work  amongst  strangers  than  you 
are;  for  I do  not  feel  little  things  half  so  much.  So  you 
take  the  portion  you  have  so  generously  laid  aside  for  me,  and 
I will  take  your  place,  and  teach.”  And  Minie  Leslie, 
springing  into  the  midst  of  the  circle,  with  her  bright,  beau- 
tiful face,  and  silvery  laugh,  seemed  indeed  a very  spirit  of 
joy,  sent  to  breathe  hope  and  comfort  in  the  midst  of  gloom. 

You  leave  the  shelter,  the  safety  of  home,  and  my  mother  s 
fostering  care,  to  struggle  with  the  world  !”  exclaimed  Florence. 
‘'No;  had  we  nothing  to  depend  on  but  my  own  exertions, 
this  should  not  be.” 

“ Why,  Florence,  do  you  think  I cannot  gain  my  own  living 
as  well  as  yourself  ? Mamma,  did  you  ever  hear  her  so  con- 
ceited before  V 

“ Alas  ! my  child  ; her  few  years  more  of  experience  have 
awakened  her  to  many,  many  thoughts  of  danger  and  tempta- 
tion, of  which  your  guileless  innocence  cannot  know.” 

“ Danger,  temptation,  dearest  mother  ? why  should  they 
assail  me  more  than  Florence  ? Why  should  so  much  evil 
occur  to  me  and  none  to  her  ? Do  not  imagine  that  I wish  to 
leave  home — but  if  one  of  us  must  go,  I should  like' to  know 
what  your  wisdom.  Master  Walter,  can  bring  forward  against 
my  plan  ; when  you,  of  all  persons,  ought  to  know  that  when 
Florence  weeps  at  unkindness  or  neglect,  I laugh,  and  so  am 
likely  to  be  very  happy  when  she  would  be  very  miserable. 
Come,  sir,  speak;  what  can  you  bring  forward  in  objection?” 
she  continued,  laying  both  hands  caressingly  on  his  arm,  and 
looking  up  in  his  face  so  archly,  that  she  seemed  more  than 
usually  lovely. 

Inexpressibly  affected,  Walter  led  her  forward  to  a mirror 
hanging  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  room,  and  answered — 

“ Minie  ! you  ask  me  what  I can  bring  forward ; look  at  your 
own  sweet  face,  my  darling  sister,  and  you  have  my  answer.  You 
do  not  know  its  power ; you  have  no  wish,  no  temptation  to 
use  that  precious  gift,  save  to  add  to  the  happiness  of  home. 
There  have  been  none  to  tell  you  you  are  beautiful,  save  the 
lips  of  that  faithful  love,  which,  wdiile  it  speaks  of  beauty,  bids 


woman’s  friendship. 


99 


you  know  its  only  value.  But,  thrown  amidst  heartless 
strangers,  brought  forward  by  your  own  exceeding  loveliness, 
with  none  to  guard  and  warn — doubly  endangered  by  that 
very  ignorance  of  all  worldly  ways,  which  we  so  dearly  love — 
Minie  ! my  precious  Minie  ! I would  rather  earn  my  bread,  a 
slave  behind  a counter,  than  you  should  leave  my  mother 
And  overcome  by  strong  emotion,  Walter  Leslie  clasped  his 
young  sister  closer  to  him,  while  his  voice  shook  and  his  whole 
frame  trembled  ; Minie  s joyous  laugh  was  checked,  and  for 
several  minutes  she  clung  to  him  in  tearful  silence. 

''  But  am  I then  to  see  you  and  Florence  labour  in  sorrow 
and  care,  day  after  day,  and  I am  to  rest  in  idleness, 
simpty  because  they  say  that  I am  beautiful  ? Oh,  Walter  ! 
do  not  make  me  such  a selfish  wretch,”  she  said  at  length,  as 
she  raised  her  head  from  his  bosom,  and  flung  back  impetuously 
her  beautiful  hair.  Am  I sent  into  this  world  to  do  nothing, 
where  all  our  exertions  are  needed,  when  God  has  given  me  a 
temper  enabled  to  bear  all  things,  and  health  sufficient  for 
any  labour?  And  all  this  to  be  a useless  burden  on  you 
both.  Why  am  I not  like  others  ? Why  too  beautiful  for 
use  ?” 

“ To  be  to  us  all  we  need — to  give  my  mother  joy  when  she 
would  grieve,”  answered  Florence,  passionately.  ‘'Do  not  say 
those  precious  gifts  are  lent  but  to  make  you  a useless  burden. 
Oh,  Minie  ! you  do  not  know  what  you  are  to  us — how  fondly 
we  shall  turn  to  the  house  which  you  so  bless — how  much 
more  sad,  more  desolate,  would  be  our  mother’s  hearth,  if  you 
were  absent.” 

“ Florence,  my  child,  my  blessed  child ! do  not  speak  thus,” 
entreated  Mrs.  Leslie,  an  expression  of  agony  contracting  her 
features,  which  her  children  could  not  define ; “ both  so  inex- 
pressibly dear,  why  should  the  absence  of  one  be  more  felt 
than  that  of  the  other  ? Why,  why  should  I consent  to  send 
you  from  me,  and  retain  Minie  by  me  ? Why  expose  you  to 
danger,  trial,  and  suffering,  from  v/hich  I would  selfishly 
shelter  her  ! Florence  ! Walter  ! you  know  not,  you  cannot 
know  the  agony  of  this  decision.” 

“And,  therefore,  we  will  not  let  you  decide,  my  beloved 
mother,”  replied  Walter ; “ leave  it  to  your  children — trust 
them  in  this  emergency.  While  such  love  exists  between  us, 
wherever  we  are,  whatever  called  upon  to  do,  our  paths  can 
never  be  wholly  sad.  Trust  us,  oh ! trust  us,  mother,  and 

H 2 


100 


WOMAN  S miENDSHIP. 


while  we  may  see  the  smile  on  your  dear  lips,  the  peace  of  God 
on  your  fond  heart,  we  must,  we  shall  be  blessed/’ 

For  a few  minutes  Mrs.  Leslie’s  only  reply  was  to  weep  on 
his  bosom  ; but  soon  the  feelings  of  each  were  calmed  for  the 
sake  of  the  other,  and  the  evening  passed  cheerfully.  Minie, 
whose  tears  were  ever  transient  like  the  night-dews  on  the 
flowers,  was  indeed  the  first  to  smile  herself  and  bring  the 
smile  to  others. 

Little  did  her  children  guess  the  real  cause  of  the  suffering 
which  the  fact  that  either  Florence  or  Minie  must  leave  her 
occasioned  Mrs.  Leslie.  It  was  not  simply  a mother’s  feeling. 
She  was  the  sole  retainer  of  a weighty  truth,  which  in  such  a 
moment  seemed  to  whelm  her  with  the  increased  necessity  for 
concealment. 

‘‘  Father  of  Mercy ! save  me  from  the  betrayal  of  the  truth 
to  my  poor  child,”  she  prayed,  in  the  silence  and  solitude  of 
her  own  chamber.  Florence  ! my  poor  Florence  ! guard  her 
from  all  hnowledge  of  the  truth,  till  its  concealment  threaten 
increase  of  suffering,  hy  unconscious  sin.  Grant  it,  oh  ! grant 
it,  even  when  I am  gone,  and  may  ofier  it  no  more.  And 
now — now  guide  this  feeble  heart  aright,  for  it  dares  not  listen 
to  itself.  Would  I keep  Minie  nearer  to  me  than  Florence  ? 
Will  the  voice  of  Nature  so  assert  her  influence  now  as  to* 
stifle  the  voice  of  Love  ? Oh  ! let  this  not  be.  Save  me  from 
all  decision  save  that  which  will  be  the  best  for  both  !”  And 
calmed  by  that  earnest  prayer  and  trusting  faith,  the  morrow 
found  Mrs.  Leslie  once  again  herself. 

Florence  persevered  in  her  resolution  to  seek  employment, 
as  resident  governess  in  some  respectable  family  ; and  Minie, 
as  firmly  resolved  not  to  be  idle,  declared  that  her  taste  for 
fancy  work  should  now  become  useful  as  well  as  an  amusement. 
She  would  get  their  dear  old  landlady  to  dispose  of  the  articles 
for  her,  and  procure  all  the  materials  ; so  Walter  need  not  be 
alarmed.  Though  what  possible  harm  could  befall  her,  if  she 
sought  such  employment  in  propria  persona,  she  could  not 
imagine. 

“Are  there  no  other  pretty  people  in  the  world,  my 
dear  fidgety  brother,  that  you  fear  such  unutterable  things 
for  me  ? Why,  if  you  were  the  Grand  Seigneur  himself,  and 
I the  queen  of  his  harem,  you  could  not  guard  me  more 
jealously,”  she  laughingly  said ; and  had  her  nature  been  less 
childlike,  Walter  would  have  found  some  difficulty  to  reply 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


101 


satisfactorily,  without  exciting  an  undue  idea  of  her  own 
importance,  but  such  a thought  never  entered  her  mind.  She 
knew  she  was  lovely,  hut  it  was  to  her  rather  a source  of 
regret  than  rejoicing,  as  it  rendered  her  less  useful  than 
Florence,  for  whom  her  affection  was  so  true,  so  reverential, 
that  the  idea  of  her  going  among  strangers  was  fraught  with 
as  much  suffering  to  her  as  to  Florence  herself. 

Oh,  why  is  not  Lady  St.  Maur  here  now  V she  one  day 
said,  as  she  clung,  weeping,  to  her  sister.  ‘‘  Why  do  you  not 
write  to  her,  Florence  ? Tell  her  what  you  are  compelled  to 
do  : I am  sure  she  would  assist  you.” 

^‘How,  dearest  Minie  ? What  could  she  do  for  me  in  Kome, 
and  I in  London  ? ” 

Oh,  give  you  letters  of  recommendation  to  some  of  her 
friends  here,  who  would  soon  find  you  employment.  I wish 
you  would  let  me  write  for  you  ; I have  so  often  thought  of 
doing  so.” 

^ Minie,  if  you  love  me,  do  not  think  of  it,”  replied  Florence, 
with  an  expression  of  suffering  which  could  not  escape  her 
sister’s  notice  ; I could  not  write  to  Lady  St.  Maur  now,  we 
are  too  widely  severed.” 

‘‘Nay,  Florence,  I am  sure  you  are  not  alluding  only  to 
distance.  You  think  Lady  Ida  changed ; and  if  you  think 
so,  I am  sure  you  do  not  love  her  as  much  as  I do.  I am 
sure  the  more  you  needed  friendship,  the  more  she  would 
rejoice  in  bestowing  it.  You  will  find  that  I am  a much  truer 
prophetess  than  you  are.” 

“Because  you  have  not  trusted,  hoped,  anticipated,  and 
found  all  vain,”  mentally  responded  Florence,  as  her  happy 
sister  bounded  away.  “ I could  write  for  Walter,  I could 
hope  for  him,  but  I cannot  for  myself.” 


CHAPTEE  XVIIL 


A SOLID  ENGLISH  EDUCATION. — MINIE. — OLD  EEIENDS. — EMILY 

meleord’s  promise. 


The  first  applications  of  Florence  for  a situation  were  most 
dispiritingiy  unsuccessful.  The  school  for  governesses  was 
overstocked  by  young  women  who,  educated  far  above  their 
rank  and  the  expectations  of  their  parents  (mostly  petty 
farmers  or  flourishing  shopkeepers),  loaded  with  showy  accom- 
plishments, endowed  with  a sufficient  quantum  of  assurance 
to  display  themselves  to  the  best  advantage,  and  sick  of  home 
by  its  contrast  with  their  over-refined  ideas  of  fashion  and 
sentiment,  offer  themselves  at  the  lowest  possible  terms,  and 
are  accepted,  as  combining  all  that  is  necessary  to  be  acquired 
in  the  small  compass  of  one  brain. 

Florence  could  not  compete  with  these,  and  in  consequence 
was  again  and  again  rejected,  as  incapacitated,  by  her  own 
avowal,  for  the  education  of  fashionable  young  ladies.  One 
lady  could  not  understand  what  she  meant  by  a solid  English 
education  ; there  was  surely  no  occasion  for  such  instruction 
in  England  ; it  might  be  all  very  well  for  foreigners,  but 
certainly  was  unnecessary  for  English  girls.  Her  daughters 
must  be  accomplished,  understand  all  the  living  languages, 
sing,  paint,  embroider — that  was  all  she  required ; she  knew 
many  who  would  undertake  to  do  it  all.  Another  looked 
perfectly  mystified  as  to  instruction  being  needed  in  religion 
and  morals.  What  possible  occasion  could  there  be  for  things 
which  came  so  completely  by  instinct  ? She  was  afraid 
Miss  Leslie  stood  a very  poor  chance  of  employment,  if  she 
could  only  profess  things  which  in  fact  everybody  knew, 
without  taking  the  trouble  to  acquire  them.  A third  turned 


WOMAN  S PRIENDSHIP. 


103 


up  lier  hands  and  eyes  in  sentimental  astonishment,  that  any 
person  could  attempt  to  teach  who  did  not  understand 
German — had  only  read  Schiller  in  English,  and  knew  nothing 
of  Kotzebue  or  Goethe.  A fourth  could  not  possibly  engage 
her,  because  she  w^as  ignorant  of  Latin  and  Greek,  which  she 
declared,  with  the  voice  and  look  of  a Koman  dictator,  to  be 
indispensable  for  the  proper  training  of  girls.  Questions  of 
phrenology,  animal  magnetism,  chemistry,  and  all  the  ologies, 
were  asked  by  this  learned  lady,  and  poor  Florence  was  finally 
dismissed  with  a look  of  most  ineffable  contempt.  A fifth 
wished  to  know  if  she  read  novels,  Austin,  Edgeworth,  and 
even  Scott  being  enumerated  in  that  sweeping  name,  and 
Miss  Leslie  dismissed  with  a frown  the  moment  she  acknow- 
ledged that  she  did,  the  lady  having  resolved  that  no  person 
likely  to  breathe  the  words  sentiment  or  romance  should  have 
the  honour  of  instructing  her  daughters,  who,  already  initiated 
in  all  the  mysteries  of  duplicity,  forswearing  sentiment  in 
their  mother  s presence,  to  indulge  in  the  most  dangerous 
kind  when  alone,  looked  as  if  poor  Florence’s  high  and  refined 
sense  of  such  emotions  could  do  them  very  little  injury. 
There  were  some  mothers,  also,  whose  sole  objection  was  that 
she  had  never  been  out  before  ; they  could  engage  no  young 
person  for  whom  no  one  except  her  own  family  could  be  found 
to  speak.  Alas  ! these  trials  were  hard  to  bear,  perhaps  yet 
harder  for  one  like  Florence,  wLose  pure  and  beautiful  ideas 
of  human  nature,  and  the  power  of  virtue  and  benevolence 
even  in  this  world,  were  so  continually  and  harshly  disappointed. 
She  had  been  more  than  once  advised  to  write  to  Lady  Melford, 
or  to  one  of  her  daughters,  as  perhaps  in  their  circle  she 
might  be  more  successful ; but  they  had  for  the  last  two  years 
so  completely  neglected  her,  that  she  shrunk  in  suffering  from 
any  such  appeal. 

Just  about  this  time,  when  Florence  was  compelled  to  relax 
her  exertions,  from  not  knowing  where  next  to  apply,  an  offer 
was  made  to  Mrs.  Leslie  which  might  materially  have  altered 
the  fortunes  of  both  sisters.  Minie’s  exquisite  voice  and 
extraordinary  beauty  had  attracted  the  attention  of  a family 
intimate  with  one  of  Mrs.  Leslie’s  few  confidential  friends. 
They  w^ere  foreigners,  one  of  whom  was  associated  with  the 
Italian  Opera,  in  rather  an  influential  position.  He  offered  to 
take  Minie  into  his  own  family,  then  about  to  return  to  Italy, 
give  her  the  best  instruction,  and  so  bring  her  forward,  that, 


104 


woman’s  friendship. 


on  her  returning  to  England,.^  her  fortune  would  be  made. 
Mrs.  Leslie  listened,  and  questioned  with  apparent  calmness, 
but  with  a ivrung  heart.  How  did  they  intend  her  child  to 
take  advantage  of  this  undoubtedly  generous  proposal — as  a 
private  professor  simply  to  teach  ? The  reply  was  a decided 
negative  : there  surely  could  be  no  hesitation  in  her  accepting 
an  engagement  as  prima  donna^  when  there  was  not  the 
smallest  doubt  of  her  ultimate  success — she  was  so  graceful, 
so  gifted,  a very  little  training  would  be  sufficient  to  make  her 
first-rate  as  an  actress,  as  a singer.  They  argued  well,  but 
Mrs.  Leslie  was  an  Euglish  mother  — heart  and  soul  an 
Englishwoman.  She  had  not  always  been  in  poverty,  and  she 
carried  with  her  to  her  present  station  all  the  high  feelings  of 
birth  and  education,  which  no  privation,  no  penury  could 
remove.  She  shrunk  from  bringing  forward  her  gentle, 
modest  Minie  in  a situation  of  such  equivocal  tendency.  Yet 
did  she  right  to  refuse  it  ? The  struggle  was  a terrible  one, 
and  perhaps  the  mother  could  never  have  decided,  had  not 
Florence  one  day,  alarmed  at  the  suffering  imprinted  on  her 
countenance,  caressingly  implored  to  know  the  cause,  when 
Mrs.  Leslie  told  her  all.  ^‘Oh,  do  not  hesitate,  dearest 
mother,”  was  the  instant  reply ; do  not  think  of  it  one 
moment.  It  is  neither  shame  nor  disgrace  to  those  destined 
for  the  stage  from  their  childhood,  and  so  armed  against  its 
dangers.  As  long  as  they  are  respectable,  their  profession 
must  be  so  too  ; but  it  is  not  for  those  who  have  been  thus 
educated  to  feel  and  think  like  us.  Who  could  be  with  our 
Minie  in  such  seasons,  to  prevent  all  associations  with  those  of 
doubtful  reputation,  too  often  found  in  the  opera  role  ? And 
to  do  this  she  must  go  from  us  to  a land  of  strangers — 
be  exposed  to  neglect,  perhaps  severity,  or,  if  treated  with 
kindness,  exciting  such  admiration,  that  how  might  we  hope 
that  she  would  return  to  us  the  same  darling  child  she  leaves 
us  ? No,  no,  dearest  mother,  do  not  think  of  it.” 

I would  not,  could  not,  my  beloved  girl,  save  for  one 
weighty  cause — I refuse  an  offer  of  independence  for  her,  and 
in  so  doing  devolve  dependence,  labour,  suffering  upon  you. 
Florence,  how  can  I do  this  ?” 

Easily,  my  own  mother;  for,  believe  me,  the  most  fatiguing 
toil  were  comparative  happiness  to  this  trial.  Do  not  think  of 
her, — only  of  my  father  ; what  anguish  even  the  very  idea  of 
such  a position  for  his  Minie  would  have  inflicted  upon  him. 


woman's  feiendship.  105 

And  for  Minie  herself,  oh,  she  could  never  bear  the  suffering 
of  such  a separation.” 

Do  you  indeed  think  so  ? ” and  the  sudden  irradiation  of 
Mrs.  Leslie's  every  feature  showed  how  eagerly  she  grasped  at 
this  suggestion.  If  I could  but  think  so,  that  she  would 
herself  refuse  this  offer — that  she  w^ould  not  accuse  me  of 
selfishly  sacrificing  her  real  interests  for  my,  perhaps,  un- 
founded prejudice  and  dread.” 

Hear  her  own  opinion,  then,  dearest  mother;  you  will  find 
it  the  same  as  mine,”  and  Florence  bounded  away  to  call  her 
sister. 

She  was  right.  With  a passionate  burst  of  tears,  Minie 
folded  her  arms  round  her  mother’s  neck,  and  conjured  her 
not  to  send  her  so  completely  away — not  to  compel  her  to 
embrace  such  a profession ; she  would  willingly  teach,  work, 
labour,  anything  her  mother  or  sister  might  dictate ; but  she 
was  sure  her  voice  would  fail  her  if  so  tried.  It  was  enough  : 
the  refusal  was  accordingly  sent,  gratefully,  but  decisively. 
Meanwhile  Florence,  feeling  more  than  ever  the  absolute 
necessity  for  exertion,  had  just  resolved  on  writing  to  Lady 
Melford,  when  she  heard  of  that  family's  arrival  in  town.  Painful 
as  the  effort  would  be,  she  thought  personal  application  more 
likely  to  be  successful  than  epistolary.  But  Walter  advised 
her  writing  to  Lady  Edgemere  in  preference.  Eagerly  Florence 
caught  at  the  idea ; she  wrote,  and  Walter  himself  took  the 
letter.  Unhappily,  he  only  learned  that  the  family  were  all 
on  the  Continent,  and  would  be  there  some  time.  It  was  a 
bitter  disappointment,  for  hope,  as  if  the  more  elastic  from 
being  long  kept  bound,  had  sprung  up  beneath  Walter’s  san- 
guine expectations,  and  it  was  hard  to  chain  her  wings  again. 
To  Lady  Melford,  then,  she  resolved  on  going,  but  she  could 
not  talk  about  it ; and  so  unknown  to  her  mother,  and  even 
to  Walter,  one  fine  spring  morning  she  set  forth.  The  parks, 
the  streets  of  the  aristocratic  west,  looked  gay  and  joyous  in 
the  sunshine ; every  face  seemed  clothed  with  smiles  to  her  ; 
perchance  they  were  not,  but  the  sorrowing  and  careworn  feel 
so  painfully  alone.  London  is  even  solitude  to  hundreds  of 
its  weary  wanderers.  Florence  walked  on  mechanically,  con- 
scious only  of  that  stagnating  depression,  so  difficult  to  bear, 
and  still  more  to  overcome.  She  felt  her  cheek  flushed  and 
pale  alternately,  as  she  stood  on  the  steps  of  Lord  Melford's 
stately  mansion,  and  her  heart  so  throbbed,  that  she  had  at 
first  no  power  to  lift  the  knocker. 


106 


woman’s  friendship. 


Florence  Leslie  ! well  tliis  is  really  an  unexpected  pleasure : 
how  good  of  you  to  make  such  an  exertion/’  was  the  greeting 
she  received  from  Emily  Melford,  who  rose  from  her  languid 
position  with  some  degree  of  erapressementy  and  extended  her 
hand.  Lady  Melford  and  Georgiana  (still  Miss  Melford)  met 
her  the  same.  To  a casual  observer,  nothing  could  have  been 
kinder  than  their  reception  ; but  oh,  how  heartless,  the  mere 
kindness  of  the  lip,  not  of  the  soul,  did  it  feel  to  Florence, 
who  so  trembled  with  suppressed  emotion,  that  a seat  was 
never  more  welcome.  The  very  sight  of  their  well-remembered 
faces,  the  tones  of  their  voices,  brought  back  the  full  tide  of 
memory  ; and  seemed  as  if  many  more  than  barely  four  years 
had  rolled  over  her  head  since  they  had  parted.  Her  appear- 
ance had  no  such  effect  on  her  former  friends  : they  had  lived, 
rather  perhaps  existed,  too  long  in  the  world  where  fashion 
and  frivolity  are  the  presiding  deities.  Nothing  had  occurred 
to  ruffle  the  current  of  their  lives,  so  that  years  rolled  by, 
unnoticed  and  unfelt.  There  was  no  reference  to  their  former 
acquaintance — no  allusion  to  her  personal  interests,  except 
an  inquiry  after  the  family — whether  Mrs.  Leslie’s  health  were 
improved — whether  Mr.  Leslie  liked  London  better  than  the 
country,  etc. 

I have  lost  my  dear  father,”  faltered  Florence,  vainly 
struggling  to  reply  without  emotion. 

‘‘  I thought  you  knew  this,  Emily,  and  might  have  spared 
Miss  Leslie  the  question,”  observed  Lady  Melford,  as  reproach- 
fully as  her  quiet  temper  would  permit. 

Oh,  by  the  way,  mamma,  now  you  mention  it,  I do  re- 
member hearing  or  reading  something  of  it ; and,  indeed,  I 
meant  to  have  written  to  you,  Florence ; but  it  was  just  at 
the  time  Sophia  married,  and  I really  had  so  much  to  think 
about  for  her,  that  time  slipped  away,  till  it  was  too  late  ta 
write.  I knew  you  were  always  good-natured,  and  trusted  you 
would  forgive  the  apparent  neglect.  I never  write  to  any  one 
— it  is  such  a dreadful  exertion.” 

Exertion ! ” thought  Florence,  as  she  glanced  round  the 
luxuriouly-furnished  apartment.  Is  it  possible,  with  every 
want  supplied,  that  the  idea  of  exertion  can  be  the  excuse  for 
not  writing  to  a friend?  Your  sister  Sophia  is  married, 
then  ? ” she  added  aloud. 

Yes,  nearly  a year  and  a half  ago,  to  Lord  Maynard.  Did 
you  not  see  it  in  the  papers  ? She  is  very  happy,  very  rich^ 


woman’s  friendship. 


107 


her  Lord  very  dewue,  and  so  on.  For  my  part,  the  trouble  of 
trying  on  the  marriage  trousseau,  the  excitement,  the  visits, 
would  terrify  me  out  of  all  idea  of  matrimony.  I am  grown 
dreadfully  lazy ; even  parties  are  too  much  trouble.” 

Perhaps  you  have  not  very  good  health,”  innocently 
remarked  Florence. 

Why,  I am  never  particularly  well,  and  have  tried  all  the 
doctors  in  and  out  of  London  ; but  they  did  me  no  permanent 
good,  never  finding  out  what  is  the  matter  with  me.  I feel 
no  pain,  certainly — nothing,  whatever,  to  complain  ; but  a je 
lie  sais  quoi,  incapacitating  me  from  all  exertion.” 

The  young  lady  who  said  this,  in  the  most  gracefully  languid 
manner  possible,  looked  in  blooming  health,  almost  embonpoint, 
presenting  a strange  contrast  to  the  pale,  pensive  countenance 
of  her  visitor,  whose  actual  livelihood  depended  on  ''  exertion.” 

Are  you  as  fond  of  reading  as  you  used  to  be  ? ” inquired 
Lady  Melford ; and  Florence  answered,  with  more  animation 
than  she  had  yet  spoken,  in  the  affirmative.  The  Viscountess 
mentioned  several  of  the  fashionable  works  of  the  day. 
Florence  blushingly  avowed  that  her  reading  had  lately  been 
more  amongst  the  older  authors,  and  that  it  was  only  the  last 
year  or  two  she  had  become  aware  of  their  beauties. 

You  must  have  plenty  of  leisure,  Florence  : what  a happy 
girl  you  must  be  ! I can  find  time  for  nothing,”  was  Emily's 
rejoinder.  ‘^As  to  reading  anything  but  the  lightest  novel, 
with  the  round  of  visiting  in  this  house,  is  impossible.” 

Florence  vainly  endeavoured  to  explain  this,  so  as  to  satisfy 
her  own  mind  ; but  the  chit-chat  in  which  they  had  engaged 
her,  rendered  the  task  at  that  moment  impossible.  How  was 
she  to  introduce  the  real  motive  of  her  visit  was  another 
mental  question,  which  she  found  some  difficulty  in  replying. 
At  last  Lady  Melford  asked  how  she  had  come — was  she  living 
near  ? Her  answer  occasioned  Emily’s  extreme  astonishment. 
‘‘  Walked  all  the  way  from  Camberwell ! what  strength  you 
must  have  ! It  really  was  good  of  you  to  come.” 

Then  was  the  moment,  and  Florence,  though  her  emotion 
almost  choked  her,  seized  it.  Modestly,  though  with  uncon- 
scious dignity,  she  removed  Emily  Melford’s  impression  that 
her  visit  was  merely  to  renew  their  acquaintance,  and  said 
that  the  unfortunate  termination  of  a lawsuit  in  the  family 
compelled  her  to  seek  employment,  and  that  remembering 
Lady  Melford’s  former  kindness,  she  had  ventured  to  call  and 


108 


woman's  friendship. 


solicit  her,  or  her  daughters'  recommendation,  should  they 
know  of  any  family  requiring  an  English  governess.  Lady  Mel- 
ford  expressed  herself  truly  sorry,  and  that  she  feared  she  really 
had  no  power  to  assist  her ; yet  if  she  should  hear  of  a vacant 
situation,  she  would  with  pleasure  speak  of  Florence.  Miss 
Melford  looked  very  grave.  Much  as  she  might  wish  to  serve 
Miss  Leslie,  she  said  their  very  slight  acquaintance  would 
hardly  justify  her  encountering  the  responsibility  which  the 
recommendation  of  a governess  must  entail  upon  herself. 
Emily  Melford,  for  the  moment,  permitted  a good  heart  to 
triumph  over  habitual  indolence,  and  declared  she  would  make 
every  possible  inquiry — would  say  everything  in  her  favour, 
and  she  had  no  doubt  she  should  succeed. 

Take  care,  Emily,  what  you  promise,"  was  Lady  Melford's 
warning  observation.  ^'You  say  you  are  not  equal  to  the 
least  exertion  now,  and  this  will  demand  a great  deal." 

Indeed,  mamma,  I will  do  all  I can,  though  of  course  I 
cannot  promise  success,"  replied  Emily,  unconsciously  affected 
at  the  glistening  eyes  and  flushed  cheek  which  were  turned 
towards  her  with  an  expression  of  such  grateful  acknowledge- 
ment, that  it  made  her  feel  for  the  moment  they  were  girls 
again  in  Devonshire.  Florence  could  not  doubt  her,  nay,  for 
the  moment  she  felt  it  difficult  to  retain  the  wounded  pride 
which  Emily’s  previous  unkindness  and  neglect  had  so  pain- 
fully engendered.  She  did  not  know  how  fatally  selfish 
indolence  had  deadened  every  good  and  kindly  feeling ; that 
Emily’s  impulses  were  as  vivid  and  evanescent  as  the  sparks 
from  flint — never  visible,  save  from  sudden  and  violent 
friction,  and  then  vanishing  into  air. 

Florence  at  length  rose  to  go ; they  asked  her  to  stay  and 
dine,  and  on  her  refusing,  begged  her  to  come  whenever  she 
felt  inclined  for  the  exertion ; they  should  always  be  happy  to 
see  her. 

It  is  a shame  even  to  ask  you  to  make  such  an  exertion, 
Florence,  for  it  would  kill  me,  I am  sure.  You  surely  will  not 
walk  home  ? " 

"'No,"  Florence  said;  most  probably  she  should  return  home 
by  one  of  the  public  conveyances. 

" What,  alone  ? Ah,  I alwavs  said  you  were  meant  for  a 
heroine,  Florence." 

“Not  much  of  one,  dear  Emily,  for  I believe  a heroine 
would  hardly  be  so  unwillingly  independent  as  I am  compelled 


woman’s  friendship. 


109 


to  be.  Exertion  is  indeed  no  new  thing  to  me,  and  I must 
regard  it  still  less,  henceforth,  than  I have  hitherto  done.” 

As  Florence  descended  the  stairs,  two  young  men  ran  hastily 
against  her,  then  paused  to  look  at  her,  half  in  doubt,  half  in 
inquiry,  politely  apologized,  an  apology  merely  acknowledged 
by  a graceful  bow,  and  the  gentlemen  bounded  into  the 
drawing-room.  "‘Who,  in  the  world,  is  that  pale,  elegant 
girl  ? ” exclaimed  one.  Pretty  she  is  not,  but  something 
better — graceful,  distingiiee.  Who  is  she  ? ” 

^‘Is  it  possible  you  have  so  completely  forgotten  her,  Alfred? 
Why,  Florence  Leslie.” 

That  Florence  Leslie  ? What,  Ida’s  favourite  Flower  of 
St.  John’s  ? What  a fool  not  to  know  her  ! Where  has  she 
hid  herself  all  this  time  ? ” 

Why  did  you  not  come  in  before  ? you  would  have  known 
all  then,  without  my  having  the  trouble  of  telling  you — for 
pity’s  sake,  remember  my  nerves  ! ” 

“I  beg  pardon  of  your  nerves,  Emily,  but  I will  know 
something  more  of  Florence — she  was  such  a merry  companion 
once.  Come,  Frank,  by  the  way,  you  used  to  admire  her  too.” 
And  young  Melford,  regardless  of  all  remonstrances,  alike  from 
his  sister  or  his  companion,  ran  down  the  stairs,  dragging  Frank 
along  with  him,  and  speedily  overtook  Florence,  who,  fatigued 
and  depressed  by  long-suppressed  emotion,  had  proceeded  but  a 
very  short  way.  Miss  Leslie,  I have  run  after  you  on 
purpose  to  entreat  your  forgiveness  for  my  stupidity  in  not 
recognising  you,”  was  his  address,  in  a tone  so  truly  respectful, 
that  it  quickly  subdued  the  alarm  experienced  by  Florence  in 
finding  herself  so  followed.  ^'Ah,”  he  continued,  as  she 
accepted  his  apology  with  a bright  blush  and  lively  smile,  if 
you  had  looked  as  you  do  now  when  I first  met  you,  I should 
have  recognised  you  directly;  should  not  you,  Howard?  ” 

‘H  fancied  Miss  Leslie’s  countenance  familiar  to  me,  even  in 
the  first  momentary  glance,”  was  the  reply ; and  Florence’s 
attention,  awakened  by  the  name,  she  glanced  hastily  towards 
him,  answering  his  greeting  by  a silent  bow. 

Howard  ! could  this  be  the  handsome,  intelligent  boy,  with 
whom  she  had  danced  so  often  on  that  ever-memorable  night, 
the  night  of  Lady  Ida’s  ball  ? whose  round  jacket  and  Byron 
collar  had  so  often  excited  Emily  Melford’s  raillery  on  Florence’s 
odd  propensity  for  unfledged  {i.e.  uncoated)  men?  It  must 
be,  for  the  countenance  was  the  same,  only  mellowed  into  more 


110 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


manly  beauty ; and  the  slight  boyish  form  had  so  sprung  up 
into  the  graceful  yet  muscular  proportions  of  a tall,  aristocratic- 
looking  man,  that  it  seemed  strange  to  Florence  that  only  four 
years  could  have  wrought  such  a change,  making  him  appear 
so  much  her  senior,  when  he  was  in  fact  her  junior  by  a year. 

‘‘Well,  Miss  Leslie,  I hope  we  shall  have  our  long-exiled  Ida 
home  soon,''  observed  young  Melford,  after  gaily  conversing  on 
their  former  acquaintance,  and  the  many  enjoyments  of  St. 
John's.  “ There  is  some  talk  of  Lord  St.  Maur  receiving 
some  high  office  at  home  in  return  for  his  services  abroad;  and 
then  of  course  you  will  see  Ida.  She  is  not  one  to  forget  old 
friends." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


IXOEENCE  A GOVEENESS. — WALTEE  IS  ILL. — TEIALS. — A MESSAGE. 


Little  as  Florence  expected  kindness  from  Lady  Melford’s 
family,  she  did  not,  could  not  believe  that  Emily’s  professions 
of  interest  were  so  completely  without  foundation,  that  she 
actually  never  again  thought  of  Florence  or  her  wishes,  until 
a note  from  Florence  several  weeks  afterwards,  informing  her 
that  she  had  obtained  a situation,  and  therefore  that  she 
needed  no  further  exertion  on  the  part  of  her  friends,  recalled 
to  the  oblivious  young  lady  that  she  had  made  no  exertion  at 
all.  It  did  occasion  a passing  qualm,  which  she  would  gladly 
not  have  felt,  but  indolence  speedily  crept  over  her  to  deaden 
even  this.  It  was  too  much  trouble  to  think  of  what  could 
not  be  remedied,  and  so  she  quietly  resigned  herself  to  forget- 
fulness. No  doubt  she  would  have  expressed  pleasure  had 
Florence  crossed  her  path,  but  as  to  seeking  her,  Emily  Melford 
would  have  shunned  the  exertion  as  an  impossibility.  Little 
things  were  too  large  for  her. 

Florence  had  indeed  at  length  succeeded  in  obtaining  employ- 
ment. A widow  lady,  with  a grown-up  son  and,  two  little 
girls,  had  lately  taken  a house  in  the  vicinity  of  Norwood, 
coming,  it  was  said,  from  Hampshire,  where  all  her  friends  and 
family  still  lived.  She  was  one  of  the  old  school,  grim,  severe, 
and  very  reserved,  and  Florence  felt  her  heart  sink  within  her 
at  the  first  conference.  Her  qualifications  were  asked,  in  one 
cold  measured  tone.  Mrs.  Russell  offered  remuneration  with 
most  unusual  liberality,  and  Florence  closed  at  once. 

We  will  not  linger  on  the  anguish  of  the  reparation,  the 
bitter  parting  of  that  beloved  one  from  the  home  of  her  child- 
hood, for  the  cold  hearth  of  strangers.  It  is  a pang  we  fear 
that  will  find  its  echo  in  too  many  hearts.  Yet  there  are  some 


112 


woman’s  feiendship. 


in  this  chequered  world  of  ours  who  are  insensible  to  the  voice 
of  home,  unconscious  of  its  peculiar  sanctity,  for  they  gladly 
turn  from  it,  preferring  even  dependence  to  resting  in  a lowly 
sphere : and  some  there  are  who,  fostered  in  wealth,  happiness, 
and  luxury,  thoughtlessly  look  on  the  young  instructress  as 
one  born  to  labour  and  endure,  unconscious  that  there  are  as 
deep  fountains  of  sorrow  and  love  in  her  hidden  breast  as  in 
their  own.  That  perhaps  the  object  of  their  own  neglect  or 
their  contempt  has,  like  them,  a fond  mother,  whose  hearth,  as 
her  heart,  is  desolate  for  the  departed — brothers,  sisters,  yearn- 
ing to  look  upon  her  face  again,  and  towards  whom  her  lonely 
spirit  turns  so  longingly  and  so  vainly. 

It  was  long,  very  long  ere  poor  Florence  could  feel  in  any 
degree  reconciled  to  this  great  change.  Peculiarly  clingingiy 
domestic,  her  affections,  with  the  sole  exception  of  Lady  St. 
Maur,  concentrated  in  her  owm  family.  She  did  indeed  feel 
lonely,  as  she  passed  evening  after  evening  in  her  solitary 
room,  released  from  her  charge  regularly  as  the  clock  struck 
seven.  Speaking  to  none,  seemingly  cared  for  by  none;  alone, 
though  often  the  house  was  full.  She  thought  at  first  she 
should  enjoy  these  hours,  as  enabling  her  to  pursue  her  favourite 
employments : but  oh ! how  changed  and  sad  they  seemed, 
as  if  they  could  scarcely  be  the  same ' which  had  engaged  her, 
when  her  mother  s eye  was  beaming  on  her,  her  sister’s  sweet 
voice  in  its  laugh  or  song  thrilling  to  her  heart,  her  brother’s 
soul-expressive  face  bending  over  his  writing,  or  lifted  up  to 
hers  asking  her  sympathy  with  some  favourite  book,  and 
though  but  few  miles  separated,  how  utterly  was  she  alone  ! 

Her  mind  was,  how^ever,  too  well  regulated  to  encourage  such 
weakening  sorrow.  Mrs.  Kussell  was  no  physiognomist,  and 
she  could  not  read  in  the  pale  countenance  she  looked  on 
regularly  every  morning  at  a specified  hour,  and  for  a specified 
time,  any  thing  more  than  was  perfectly  natural.  She  knew 
nothing  of  Florence’s  history,  and  did  not  think  it  beseeming 
in  her  to  inquire.  As  to  eliciting  any  just  praise,  it  was  a thing 
impossible.  She  had  explained  to  Miss  Leslie  her  educational 
plans — sat  in  the  schoolroom  several  mornings  to  see  them 
followed,  and  then  no  longer  interfered. 

It  was  not  pride  which  actuated  this  conduct ; but  that 
Florence,  as  the  chosen  instructress  of  her  children,  could  be 
a person  demanding  the  suffrages  and  respect  of  society,  were 
notions  as  much  too  visionary  for  Mrs.  Russell  as  they  are  to 


woman’s  friendship. 


113 


Tery  many  others.  The  creed  that  instructors  of  youth  are 
real  benefactors  of  their  kind,  and  should  be  regarded  with 
respect  and  gratitude,  may  be  excellent  in  theory,  but  in 
practice — let  the  fact  decide — the  moment  a young  woman  is 
compelled  to  teach  for  her  subsistence,  she  sinks  at  once  into  a 
lower  grade. 

Months  glided  by  slowly  and  sadly  for  our  heroine.  It  is  a 
false  doctrine  to  promulgate,  that  the  performance  of  distaste- 
ful duties  at  once  brings  happiness.  If  it  did,  surely  there 
•could  be  no  trial  to  perform,  no  temptation  to  elude  them. 

Our  heavenly  Father  sends  no  trial,  no  sorrow,  to  be  felt  as 
pleasure,  as  some  would  make  us  believe.  For  our  good  in- 
deed, our  eternal  good  ; but  would  He  hold  forth  this  blessed 
goal,  did  we  refuse  to  labour,  in  care  and  sorrow,  to  obtain  it  ? 
No,  sorrow  indeed  is  blessed,  for  there  is  a still  small  voice 
urging  us  on,  encouraging  and  consoling ; but  many  weary 
months  must  pass  ere  mournful  duties  become  joys. 

Happy,  Florence  was  not.  She  had  too  many  sources  of 
disquiet ; but  the  first  stupif3dng  influence  of  sorrow  and 
change  had  been  conquered  by  fervent  prayer  and  increasing 
effort,  and  she  became  reconciled  to  her  weary  path.  The  act 
of  teaching  became  easier  from  use ; even  Mrs.  EusselFs  stiff 
and  chilling  manner  became  more  endurable,  and  gratefully 
did  she  feel  that  to  write  cheerfully  home  was  less  an  effort 
than  it  had  been. 

Florence  had  been  six  months  with  Mrs.  Kussell,  when  her 
anxiety  was  fearfully  aroused  by  a letter  from  Minie.  Walter 
had  appeared  more  languid  than  usual  for  several  weeks,  but 
still  persisted  in  saying  he  was  perfectly  well,  and  in  attending 
to  his  business,  a few  days  previously,  he  had  been  conveyed 
home  in  his  master’s  carriage  in  an  almost  exhausted  state  ; 
the  head  clerk  had  accompanied  him,  and  given  the  alarming 
information  that  he  had  several  successive  days  fainted  at  his 
desk,  but  that  no  persuasion,  no  argument  could  prevail  on 
him  to  give  up.  He  had  rallied,  Minie  continued  to  say,  and 
was  decidedly  better,  but  his  mother  had  forbidden,  and  his 
employers  had  absolutely  refused  his  services  till  his  strength 
should  be  properly  restored. 

Florence’s  first  impulse  was  to  return  home  instantly,  that 
her  deep  anxiety  might  be  either  removed  or  justified.  Her 
next  thought  compelled  restraint  and  control  ; for  Mrs. 
Kussell  had  left  home  on  a visit  to  some  of  her  relations,  and 

I 


114 


woman’s  miENDSHIP. 


her  return  was  uncertain.  She  could  not  leave  her  charge^ 
Every  post  indeed  brought  her  intelligence ; but  what  were 
written  assurances  to  a mind  fancying  every  evil,  and  longing 
to  lavish  on  the  sufferer  all  the  affection  with  which  her  heart 
Avas  filled  ? At  length  she  looked  once  more  on  the  hand- 
writing  of  her  brother.  It  was  but  a few  lines,  but  oh,  how 
inexpressibly  precious  to  their  reader  ! 

Florence,  dearest  Florence,”  it  ran,  at  length  I may  trace 
that  dear  name  again.  Oh  ! how  painfully  I yearn  to  feel  you 
by  my  side,  to  listen  to  your  gentle  voice ; but  it  is  an  idle 
wish,  my  Florence.  I have  been  ill,  they  tell  me  very  ill ; but 
I think  they  say  more  than  the  fact,  to  keep  me  content  at 
home ; they  think  thus  to  reconcile  me  to  idleness  and  rest. 
Florence,  Florence,  how  can  this  be  ? How  can  I be  content 
wiien  so  much,  nay,  all  must  depend  on  me  ? There  was  a 
time,  that  no  pang  was  joined  with  the  dream  of  death ; but 
now,  now — oli ! if  I must  die,  what  will  become  of  my  beloved 
ones  ? Who  is  there  to  work  for  them,  to  save  them  from 
privation  and  its  hundred  woes  ? I know  this  is  sinful  mis- 
trust— I strive  against  it.  Florence,  pray  for  me,  I cannot  for 
myself.  I know  your  tears  are  falling  at  these  wild  and  sinful 
words  ; forgive  them,  Florence,  dearest,  kindest.  God  for  ever 
bless  you  and  preserve  you  to  your  Walter.” 

Vainly,  for  several  successive  hours,  did  Florence  struggle- 
with  her  emotion.  She  knew  her  brother  so  well,  that  for  him 
to  give  vent  to  such  despondenc}^  his  spirits  must  be  sunk 
indeed.  Yet  she  had  to  teacli  with  a sinking  frame  and 
sickening  heart ; to  answer  the  innumerable  questions  of  her 
prattling  com])anions ; to  compel  them  to  attention  and  obe- 
dience ; to  walk  out  witli  them,  and  then  again  resume  the 
afternoon  routine,  of  work  and  study  : and  not  till  the  return 
of  jMrs.  Bussell  in  the  evening  relieved  her  of  her  charge,  had 
she  leisure  so  to  compose  her  agitated  spirits  as  to  think 
calmly.  Would  it  be  wise  to  go  to  her  brother  ? Walter  had 
tender  nurses,  most  affectionate  friends  ; he  wanted  nothing 
wliicli  tliey  could  give.  Yv" culd  it  then  be  right  to  give  up  her 
Xweseht  situation  merely  for  tlie  consolation  of  being  with  him? 
IN^o,  she  would  work  on,  if  it  were  but  to  provide  luxuries  and 
comforts  for  liim  ; and  the  ardent  girl  clasped  her  hands,  and 
raised  lier  swollen  eyes  in  fervent  thanksgiving,  that  to  do  so 
Avas  in  her  ])ow’er.  She  pondered  deeply  how  she  could  in- 
crease her  salary.  Her  pupils  had  just  commenced  drawing^. 


woman’s  friendship. 


115 


but  Mrs.  Eussell  was  not  satisfied  with  their  instructor  ; and 
Florence,  convinced  that  she  was  capable  of  teaching  that 
accomplishment,  indulged  the  hope  that  Mrs.  Eussell  would 
gladly  accept  her  services  instead,  and  raise  her  salary  accord- 
ingly. She  had  just  brought  her  meditations  to  this  con- 
clusion, feeling  equal  to  any  exertion,  and  believing  the 
greatest  misfortune  which  could  now  befall  her,  would  be  to 
be  dismissed  from  her  present  employment,  when  a message 
was  delivered  to  her,  that  Mrs.  Eussell  wished  to  speak  with 
her  in  the  parlour.  It  was  a summons  so  unprecedented,  that 
Florence,  already  in  a painfully  excited  state,  had  scarcely 
courage  to  obey — trembling  with  forebodings  that  new  evils 
were  impending,  which  she  should  have  no  power  to  resist. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


MRS.  RUSSELL. — HASTY  CONCLUSION. — INJUSTICE. — DISMISSAL. — 
GRIEF. — A mother’s  LOVE. 


Mrs.  Russell  was  sitting  with  more  than  her  usual  stiffness 
in  her  old-fashioned  chair,  her  visage  grim  and  frowning,  with 
an  expression  round  the  mouth,  plainly  indicating  that  she 
had  formed  some  resolution  which  no  power  on  earth  could 
change.  A slight,  scarcely  perceptible  movement  of  the  head 
acknowledged  the  entrance  and  meek  obedience  of  Florence  ; 
but  no  sign  or  word  authorized  her  to  be  seated.  There  was  a 
short,  dry  cough  on  the  part  of  the  lady,  followed  by  a hum 
and  ha,  and  then  : 

''Miss  Leslie,”  she  demanded,  shortly;  "pray  are  you 
acquainted  with  Mrs.  Rivers,  of  Woodlands,  near  Winchester?” 

" Yes,  madam,  she  is  a connection  of  the  family,  and  has 
been — ” 

" Miss  Leslie,  I asked  an  answer,  not  a commentary ; you 
resided  with  her,  I presume  ? joined  in  society  at  Winchester?” 

" Yes,  madam,”  replied  Florence,  briefly. 

" Then,  Miss  Leslie,  I must  inform  you  that  your  services 
henceforth  are  dispensed  with.  My  daughters  are  much  too 
young  and  inexperienced  to  be  left  to  your  charge.  You  have 
deceived  me  egregiously,  by  daring  to  obtain  a footing  in  my 
family  as  a respectable  person,  when  you  must  be  quite  aware 
you  can  lay  no  claim  to  such  a character.  Here  is  the  sum 
total  of  my  debt  for  your  services,  and  a trifle  in  addition,  as 
I wish  to  do  nothing  unhandsomely  : we  part  to-morrow,  and 
as  there  is  no  occasion  for  any  further  rejoinder,  you  may 
retire.” 

Stunned,  yet  bewildered,  Florence  had  listened  to  this  most 
extraordinary  harangue ; she  could  not  comprehend  to^  what 
Mrs.  Russell  could  refer.  At  any  other  time,  natural  indig- 
nation would  have  given  her  not  only  voice  but  eloquence ; 


woman's  fbiendship. 


117 


but  now,  depressed,  almost  exhausted  by  the  emotions  of  the 
day,  she  felt  as  if  she  had  not  energy  enough  to  articulate  a 
single  word.  At  that  moment  she  thought  of  Walter  ; how 
could  she  aid  him  if  thus  sent  away,  not  only  deprived  of  em- 
ployment, but  of  character  ? The  colour  returned  to  her  pale 
cheek,  and  to  any  other  than  Mrs.  Kussell,  the  modest  firm- 
ness, alike  of  her  voice  and  manner,  would  have  been  sufficient 
proof  of  innocence. 

‘‘If,  madatn,'’  she  said,  “you  have  lost  all  confidence  in 
me,  you  are  right  to  decline  my  services ; but  you  must  pardon 
me,  if  I refuse  to  retire,  until  you  have  informed  me  of  what 
you  accuse  me.  I deny  all  deception  towards  you,  nor  am  I 
in  the  very  least  aware  how  I have  forfeited  my  claim  to 
respectability,  as  you  are  pleased  to  assert.  My  conscience  is 
free  from  all  intentional  offence  from  any  conduct  that  would 
unfit  me  for  the  guidance  of  youth.’’ 

“ Of  your  conduct,  whilst  under  my  roof,  I have  nothing  to 
complain,”  replied  Mrs.  Eussell,  unmoved  by  the  suppressed 
but  visible  emotion  with  which  Florence  spoke  ; “ but,  Miss 
Leslie,  you  must  be  aware,  however  you  may  now  repent  of 
former  follies,  and  resolve  to  amend  them,  that  a young  person 
whose  conduct  in  Winchester  was  such  as  to  make  her  name  a 
term  of  opprobrium  to  all  its  inhabitants,  can  be  no  fit  com- 
panion for  young  people.  My  son  is  returning  from  the  Conti- 
nent, and  I wish  to  have  no  person  with  my  daughters  whose 
character  for  flirtation  and  coquetry  would  render  his  visits  to 
his  sister  s study  equally  unsafe  and  unpleasant.  Your  varying 
colour.  Miss  Leslie,  is  suf&cient  answer ; you  have  compelled 
me  to  speak  plainly,  and  now  I hope  you  are  perfectly  satisfied 
as  to  the  justice  of  my  decision.” 

Florence’s  colour  did,  indeed,  vary  ; for  gradually,  but 
slowly,  the  conviction  dawned  upon  her,  that  Mrs.  Eussell  was 
confounding  her  with  her  cousin  Flora.  Eallying  every 
energy,  she  forced  herself  to  relate  the  real  facts,  and  solemnly 
assert  that  at  the  time  Flora  Leslie’s  conduct  had  been  most 
reprehensible,  she  had  been  residing  in  London  with  her 
newly- widowed  mother.  No  change,  however,  took  place  in 
the  sour  visage  of  Mrs.  Eussell. 

“ She  had  heard,”  she  said,  “ but  of  one  Miss  Leslie,  whose 
name  was,  people  reported,  Florence ; and  if  there  were  two 
Miss  Leslies  residing  at  Woodlands,  of  names  so  exactly 
similar,  it  was  strange  no  one  had  ever  heard  of  it.” 


118 


VfOMAN'S  PRIEKDSHIP. 


Pardon  me,  madam,  it  was  scarcely  strange ; I very 
seldom  entered  into  society,  and  latterly,  indeed,  not  at  all, 
for  I was  then  in  mourning  for  my  dear  father/’ 

'‘You  may  he  speaking  truth.  Miss  Leslie,  I will  not  take 
upon  myself  to  contradict,”  replied  the  lady,  who,  by  the  way, 
prided  herself  on  her  rigid  love  of  justice  ; "but  you  must 
permit  me  to  ask  you  what  proof,  except  your  own  family, 
who,  of  course,  will  repeat  the  same  tale,  can  you  bring 
forward  to  convince  me  I am  wrong,  and  you  are  right  ? ” 
"Proofs,  madam,  indeed,  I have  none,”  was  Florence’s  mild 
reply,  the  indignant  blood  had  dyed  her  cheeks  ; " for  of 
Mrs.  Rivers  I have,  unhappily,  lost  all  trace,  and  Flora,  now 
Mrs.  Major  Hardwicke,  even  if  I knew  her  address,  would 
scarcely  do  me  justice  by  implicating  herself” 

" That  is  to  say,  you  have  lost  all  traces  of  Mrs.  Rivers 
through  your  own  misconduct,  an  inference  tallying  exactly 
with  the  reports  I have  heard,  and  of  course  you  cannot  know 
Miss  Flora  Leslie’s  address,  as,  in  my  opinion,  no  such  person 
exists.  Oh,  for  shame  ! for  shame  ! young  as  you  are,  to  be 
so  hardened  in  guilt ! Well,  well,  I desire  you  to  retire,  for 
you  must  perceive  your  improbable  tale  weighs  little  against 
the  reports  and  warnings  I have  received.” 

" I will  obey  you,  madam,”  replied  Florence,  struggling 
with  the  indignant  pride,  which  the  cruel  belief  that  she  had 
spoken  falsely  even  at  that  moment  called.  " Thank  God,  I 
have  yet  a mother’s  faithful  love,  and  sinless  home,  to  which  I 
may  return,  and  may  that  God  who  knows  my  perfect  inuo- 
cence  forgive  you  the  injustice  you  have  shown  me  !” 

And  with  a proud  step,  but  bursting  heart,  Florence  turned 
from  the  parlour.  She  paused  not  till  she  reached  her  own 
apartment  ; but  then  sinking  on  a chair,  she  buried  her 
aching  temples  in  her  hands  ; she  could  not  weep,  though  her 
eyes  felt  starting  from  her  head ; her  character  taken  from 
her,  without  the  possibility  of  proving  hoAV  falsely ; how  could 
she  obtain  employment — how  assist  her  brother  ? the  future 
was  all  dark,  she  could  not  penetrate  its  folds,  save  to  look  on 
sorrow. 

Great,  indeed,  was  the  surprise  and  pleasure  of  Mrs.  Leslie’s 
little  family,  when  about  noon  the  following  day  Florence 
made  her  appearance. 

"Florence,  my  own  sister,  this  is  kind  indeed,”  exclaimed 
Walter,  half  rising  from  his  recumbent  posture,  to  fold  her  in 


woman’s  miENBSIIIP. 


119 


his  arms ; “ I hardly  dared  hope  a personal  answer  to  my 
murmuring  letter  ; but  I am  better,  much  better.  Mother, 
am  I not  ? why,  I am  sure  you  look  paler  and  more  suffering 
than  I do.  Florence,  there  is  something  more  the  matter  than 
my  illness — what  is  it  ?” 

‘‘  Nay,  was  not  that  enough,  dearest  Walter,  to  make  me 
anxious  ?”  she  replied,  struggling  to  smile ; but  the  effort 
only  increased  her  brother’s  alarm,  the  more  so,  as  he  perceived 
that  her  lip  so  quivered,  that  she  could  only  cling  closer  to 
him,  and  cover  his  pale  brow  with  kisses. 

‘‘  Florence,  my  child,  speak  to  me — what  has  chanced  ? you 
are  ill,  unhappy,  and  would  hide  it ; but  you  camnot.  Come 
to  me,  love,  come  to  your  mother’s-  heart,  you  will  find  rest 
there.” 

Mother,”  gasped  poor  Florence^,  throwing  herself  on  her 
knees  beside  her  mother,  and  laying  her  throbbing  head  on 
her  bosom,  I have  come  to  you,  discarded,  accused,  con- 
demned, sent  from  the  house  where  I have  striven  night  and 
day  to  do  my  duty,  as  one  wholly  unfitted  by  previous  conduct 
for  my  charge,  my  word  disbelieved,  my  whole  family  impli- 
cated in  the  charge  of  deception  : oh,  mother — mother — teach 
me  how  to  bear  this  heavy  trial ! I have  no  strength — no — ” 

Her  sobs  impeded  further  speech,  and  she  saw  not  the  effect 
of  her  words  on  her  mother,  whose  cheeks  and  lips  became  of 
a livid  whiteness,  while  the  large  beads  of  moisture  gathered 
on  her  brow. 

Who  has  dared  to  malign  you?”  exclaimed  Walter, 
springing  from  his  couch  with  the  strength  of  sudden  excite- 
ment ; Florence,  my  stainless  Florence,  who  has  dared  to 
charge  you  with  aught  of  shame  ? tell  me,  only  tell  me ; I 
have  strength  enough  to  defend  you.” 

But  even  as  he  spoke  he  sank  back  exhausted ; and  fearing 
to  agitate  him  still  more,  Florence  briefly  but  clearly  related 
the  interview  between  her  and  Mrs.  Bussell,  adding  her  own 
suppositions  as  to  the  origin  of  the  charge  against  her. 

‘‘  God  of  mercy,  I thank  thee,  and  this  is  all !”  ejaculated 
Mrs.  Leslie,  in  a voice  of  such  fervent  thanksgiving,  it  sounded 
almost  strangely  to  her  children ; and  rising  with  recovered 
power,  she  folded  Florence  to  her  bosom.  Heed  it  not,  my 
beloved  girl ; heed  not  the  false  accusations  of  the  unjust  and 
prejudiced ; we  know — God  knows — that  you  are  innocent : 
':be  comforted,  my  child.” 


120 


woman’s  friendship. 


How  may  I be  comforted,  mother,  when  slander  is  abroad, 
and  busy  with  my  name  ? how  dare  I seek  another  situation 
till  my  innocence  is  proved,  and  yet  how  can  I rest  in  idleness 
at  home  ?” 

Alow  suppressed  groan  from  Walter  filled  up  the  momentary 
pause. 

“ My  child.  He  who  feedeth  the  sparrow  and  clotheth  the 
lilies  of  the  field  will  protect  and  provide  for  us ; oh,  trust 
Him,  dearest,  and  He  will  not  forsake  us.  Tell  me,  only  tell 
me  there  is  comfort  in  your  mother’s  home,  my  child  ; that 
there,  at  least,  your  innocence  shall  be  your  strength,  and 
trust  our  heavenly  Father  for  the  rest.” 

Florence  did  not  reply,  but  her  tears  flowed  less  bitterly, 
and  gradually  composure  returned.  When  partially  recovered 
from  her  own  sorrow,  Florence  became  conscious  of  the  great 
change  in  Walter ; reduced  almost  to  a skeleton,  his  cheeks 
sunken,  and  only  too  often  dyed  with  appalling  crimson  ; his 
beautiful  eyes,  lustrous  as  they  were  wont  to  be,  but  seemingly 
larger,  from  the  attenuation  of  his  other  features ; the  blue 
veins  on  his  clear  brow  so  distinctly  visible,  that  almost  might 
be  traced  the  languid  current  beneath  ; the  parched  lip,  the 
prostrating  weakness,  each  day  confirmed,  all  revealed  the 
insidious  disease  which  had  already  claimed  him. 

Great  as  was  Mrs.  Leslie’s  trust  in  a merciful,  over-ruling 
Providence,  she  neglected  nothing  that  could  prove  that 
Florence  and  Flora  Leslie  were  two  persons,  by  making  every 
inquiry  for  Mrs.  Eivers  ; but  unhappily  all  her  efforts  failed. 
Woodlands  was  let ; the  steward  and  those  of  Mrs.  Kivers’s 
old  retainers,  who  had  lingered  on  the  estate  while  he  was 
there,  had  all  disappeared ; and  Mrs.  Leslie,  with  an  aching 
but  still  faithful  heart,  was  compelled  to  dismiss  all  hopes  of 
earthly  justice,  and  strive  to  rest  her  own  hope  and  that  of 
her  child  on  that  heavenly  Judge,  who  would  not  for  ever 
leave  them  wronged. 


CHAPTER  XXL 


GENIUS. — THE  MANUSCRIPT. 


The  winter  passed  with  little  change  to  the  Leslie  family. 
Florence,  at  length,  obtained  engagements  as  daily  governess 
in  two  or  three  families,  an  employment  infinitely  more 
arduous  than  her  former  undertaking  ; but  all  weariness  and 
anxiety  were  soothed  by  the  privilege  of  returning  to  her  own 
home,  at  six  o’clock  every  evening.  How  often,  as  she  walked 
to  her  different  pupils,  in  all  the  miseries  of  a London  winter, 
the  rain  splashing  in  pools  around  her,  saturating  her  dress,  or 
the  sleet,  and  snow,  and  wind  driving  so  full  against  her,  as  to 
demand  the  exertion  of  all  her  little  strength  to  struggle 
against  them,  did  her  thoughts  revert  to  the  happy  past,  and 
the  friends  there  associated  ! 

How  little  did  I then  dream  of  my  present  life,”  thought 
Florence,  sadly;  ‘‘better  that  I did  not,  for  I should  have 
shrunk  from  its  anticipation  with  even  deeper  suffering  than  I 
do  from  its  performance.  I am  more  worthy  of  Lady  Ida’s 
afiections  now  than  then,  and  yet  she  cannot  value,  for  she 
will  not  meet  me  now.” 

It  was  strange  how  often  the  form  and  face  of  Francis 
Howard  mingled  in  these  reminiscences  of  Lady  St.  Maur ; 
how  stealthily,  and  often  unconsciously  she  found  the  wish 
arising,  that  in  her  daily  walks  she  might  chance  to  meet  him, 
speak  with  him  again,  and  the  wish  would  often  return,  in 
spite  of  her  fixed  resolve  to  banish  it  whenever  it  arose.  But 
with  all  their  economy,  all  the  labour  of  these  two  devoted 
girls,  for  Minie  worked  at  home,  perseveringly  as  Florence 
taught  abroad,  they  could  but  clear  their  way,  and  provide 
Walter  with  the  luxuries,  the  delicacies,  his  state  of  bodily  suf- 
fering so  painfully  demanded.  The  winter,  too,  was  always 
peculiarly  trying  to  Mrs.  Leslie,  and  'all  seemed  to  devolve  on 


122 


woman’s  friendship. 


tlie  sisters,  wlio  cared  not  for  any  personal  labour,  so  that 
smiles  brightened  the  countenance  of  those  beloved  ones  for 
whom  they  toiled ; and,  in  spite  of  the  gnawing  care  expe- 
rienced by  both  mother  and  son,  those  smiles  did  await  them  still. 

To  Minie,  even  the  decided  ills  of  poverty  were  never  felt 
as  such;  her  light  sjurits  rebounded  from  every  casual  trial, 
as  if  it  had  no  more  power  to  darken  the  bright  heaven  of  her 
joy  than  the  snow-flake  can  sully  the  grass  which  receives  it. 
And  truly  she  was  the  angel  of  that  lowly  home  ; her  mother 
forgot  increasing  infirmity  and  desponding  hopes  ; her  sister, 
her  heavy  burden  of  care,  even  her  consuming  anxiety  for 
Walter,  when  Minie  smiled,  or  carolled,  or  gave  vent  in  glee- 
some  words  to  the  bursting  joyousness  of  her  little  lieart.  It 
was  scarcely  strange  that  Minie  felt  no  painful  anticipations 
with  regard  to  Walter;  but  it  certainly  was,  that  Mrs.  Leslie 
should  have  been  so  completely  unconscious  of  his  danger. 
Yet  so  it  was.;  he  suffered  apparently  so  little,  his  mind  was  so 
bright,  so  strong,  so  unfailing,  that  though  he  regained  no 
strength,  his  mother  could  not  believe  the  near  vicinity  of 
death.  She  had  been  so  many  years  hovering  herself  on  the 
threshold  of  that  awful  bourne,  and  still  she  passed  it  not, 
that  she  could  not  realize  it  with  regard  to  her  cherished,  her 
gifted  boy. 

To  Florence  alone  the  whole  extent  of  calamity  hanging 
over  them  appeared  revealed ; she  could  not  shake  off  the 
conviction  that  her  beloved  brother  was  in  truth  ‘^passing 
away,”  that  the  summer  would  return  with  all  lovely  things, 
but  find  not  the  poet  there. 

One  day,  about  the  middle  of  February,  Florence,  returning 
some  hours  earlier  from  her  daily  avocations  than  usual, 
prevailed  on  her  mother  and  Minie  to  accept  the  invitation  of 
a friend  residing  further  in  the  country,  and  remained  alone 
with  her  brother ; several  manuscripts  were  lying  on  a table 
near  him,  but,  as  was  sometimes  the  case,  he  had  sunk  into  a 
sort  of  dose,  and  fearing  to  disturb  him,  she  sat  down  to 
continue  Minie’s  work,  which  lay  on  a table  in  the  recess  of  a 
window,  half  hidden  by  the  curtains  ; for  nearly  an  hour  she 
heard  no  movement,  but  then  aroused  by  the  rustling  paper, 
she  turned  towards  the  couch.  Walter  was  glancing  over  his 
manuscripts,  and  there  was  a deep  flush  on  his  cheek,  a 
sparkle  in  his  eye,  giving  eloquent  answer  to  the  thoughts  he 
read. 


WOMANS  FRIENDSHIP, 


123 


And  will  ye,  too,  perish  ? ” she  heard  him  murmur,  as  if 
wholly  unconscious  of  her  presence  ; will  ye,  too,  fade  away 
^nd  be  forgotten,  when  the  mind  that  has  framed,  the  hand 
that  has  traced  ye,  shall  lie  mouldering  in  the  grave  ? will  no 
kindly  spirit  throb  and  bound  beneath  your  spell ; no  gentle 
heart  find  in  ye  an  answer  ? Oh,  blessed  indeed,  is  that  poet’s 
lot,  who  wins  the  applause  of  a world,  the  love,  the  reverence, 
the  blessing  of  the  gifted  and  the  good  ! who  feels  he  has 
not  lived,  nor  loved,  nor  sorrowed  in  vain  ! But  the  poet,  to 
whom  these  things  are  all  denied  ; who  passeth  from  this 
beauteous  earth,  unknown,  unloved,  his  name  with  his  body 
buried  in  the  cold,  shrouding  folds  of  death — father  ! oh,  my 
father,  have  mercy  on  thy  child  ! ” and  covering  his  face  with 
his  spread  hands,  Florence  beheld  him  give  way  to  a burst  of 
such  irrepressible  agony,  that  the  hot  tears  made  their  way 
between  his  transparent  hands,  and  the  attenuated  frame 
shook  with  sobs. 

Trembling  with  sympathising  emotion,  Florence  sank  back 
in  the  chair  she  had  quitted  ; she  longed  to  throw  herself  on 
his  neck,  to  beseech  him  to  be  comforted,  to  breathe  of  hope, 
but  she  felt  she  dared  not ; at  length,  and  unable  to  resist  the 
impulse,  she  glided  forward  and  knelt  beside  him. 

Florence,  my  beloved  sister  ! oh,  I have  terrified  3^11.  I 
forgot  your  presence,  imagined  myself  alone  ; dearest,  heed  it 
not,  I am  better  now,  it  was  bodily  weakness,  only  weakness, 
which  will  overpower  me  sometimes ; you  must  not  mind 
me.” 

It  was  several  minutes  ere  Florence  could  reply ; but  as 
quickly  as  she  could,  she  reverted  to  those  treasured  manu- 
scripts, beseeching  him  to  let  her  read  them,  it  was  so  long 
since  she  had  done  so.  With  a faint  smile  he  acceded. 
Florence  herself  was  surprised ; never  had  it  seemed  to  her 
that  such  beautiful  imagery,  such  glowing  thought,  such 
touching  pathos  had  breathed  so  powerfully  in  his  composi- 
tions before.  A new  spirit  appeared  to  have  lighted  on  them ; 
they  were  mostly  detached  pieces,  forming,  indeed,  a treasured 
volume.  He  showed  her,  too,  the  beautiful  designs  with  which 
it  was  to  be  illustrated  ; and  Florence  no  longer  marvelled  at 
the  burst  of  agony  wrung  from  him  by  the  thought,  that 
these  emanations,  of  no  common  genius,  must  pass  away  and 
be  forgotten ; but  even  she  guessed  not  the  real  reason  of  his 
longing,  and  the  poet  betrayed  it  not. 


124 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


I dreamed,”  he  said,  mournfully,  when  in  all  the  glow  and 
heat  of  composition,  that  I was  bequeathing  a glorious  gift  to  my 
country,  wreathing  my  name  with  immortality.  I seemed  to 
forget  all  the  difficulties,  the  impossibilities,  wffiich  prevented 
the  attainment  of  my  darling  wish ; but  now,  dearest,  now  I 
feel  it  is  a shadow  that  I have  sought,  a vain,  shapeless 
shadow ; it  needs  influence,  wealth,  to  say  the  least,  a namey 
and  I have  neither  ; no,  no,  they  must  die  with  me.” 

''  Die  ! ” murmured  Florence,  almost  inaudibly,  and  she 
paused  in  deep  and  mournful  thought ; ‘"but  if  you  were  strong 
and  well,  Walter,  would  you  not  make  some  effort  yourself?  at 
least  ask  the  opinion  of  some  good  publisher ; it  might  not 
then  be  so  impossible  as  it  now  seems.” 

“ If  I were  well,  oh  ! Florence,  I should  do  many  things,  and 
this  would  be  one  of  them,  I own ; but  I dare  not  think  of 
this,”  he  added,  hurriedly  and  evidently  with  pain,  “ the 
struggle  for  submission  has  been  mine  only  too  lately.  I 
know  not  how  to  trace,  to  love  the  mandate  that  chaineth  me, 
a useless  burden,  to  my  couch,  when  every  exertion  is  needed 
to  support  my  beloved  mother  and  my  helpless  sisters ; and 
yet,  oh,  Florence ! morning,  noon,  and  night,  I pray  to  see  and 
feel  this  ; for  my  better  spirit  tells  me  that  good  it  must  be, 
or  it  would  not  come  from  an  all-loving  God.” 

“ And  He  will  grant  us  both  this  blessed  trust,  in  His  own 
good  time,  my  brother  ; but  in  this  case,  dearest  Walter,  let 
me  act  for  you,  trust  the  MS.  to  me,  and  let  me  endeavour  to 
do  with  it  as  you  would  yourself.” 

Her  brother  looked  at  her  with  affection  and  astonishment. 

“ You  know  not  the  difficulties  you  undertake,  my  Florence,” 
he  said ; “ how  many  hopes  will  be  raised,  only  to  be  dis- 
appointed ; how  much  fatigue  encountered — ” 

“ I care  not,”  was  her  instant  answer ; “I  am  so  accustomed 
now  to  independent  wanderings,  that  even  the  crowded  streets 
of  London  have  lost  their  terrors  : do  not  fear  for  me ; and  if 
I should  succeed,  Walter,  dear  Walter,  what  would  previous 
disappointments,  previous  anxiety,  be  then  ? ” 

The  beaming  countenance  of  the  young  poet  was  her  truest 
answer,  and  once  the  precious  MS.  deposited  in  her  hands, 
Florence  permitted  no  difficulty  to  deter  her ; weary,  and  often 
exhausted  as  she  felt  from  seven,  sometimes  eight  successive 
hours  passed  in  teaching,  she  would  not  return  home,  till  she 
had  accomplished  something  in  the  furtherance  of  her  trust. 


woman’s  friendship. 


125 


Conquering  even  her  extreme  repugnance  to  walking  about 
the  metropolis  after  the  lamps  were  lighted,  it  was  often  near 
eight  in  the  evening  before  she  returned  home.  Even  there 
every  nerve  was  tightly  strung,  that  she  might  not  evince  the 
least  fatigue,  or  appear  desponding  ; for  the  anxious  glance  of 
her  brother  awaited  her  ; the  hope  she  had  excited  lighting  up 
his  pale  cheek  and  beautiful  eye  with  the  seeming  glow  of 
health.  Yet  both  mutually  avoided  the  subject.  Florence 
dreading  to  impart  all  the  disappointments  which  she  did,  in 
truth,  encounter ; and  Walter,  from  ph5^sical  weakness,  ab- 
solutely failing  in  courage  to  ask  a single  question,  well 
knowing  that  were  there  hope  to  give,  Florence  would  not 
continue  silent. 

It  would  be  useless  to  linger  on  the  disheartening  task  which 
the  devoted  sister  so  cheerfully  undertook  ; but  at  length  her 
perseverance  seemed  about  to  be  rewarded. 


CHAPTER  XXIL 


A Ki™  FSIEND. — THE  PUBLISHER. — THE  PHYSICIAN. 

As  Florence  W'Ould  not  have  any  of  the  letters  concerning  the 
poems  directed  at  home,  it  so  chanced  that  she  received  one  of 
the  numerous  rejections  in  the  hours  of  teaching.  The  dis- 
appointment imprinted  on  her  countenance  attracted  the 
attention  of  a benevolent  old  relation  of  her  pupils,  wha 
frequently  visited  the  schoolroom.  Fie  inquired  the  cause  sa 
feelingly,  that  the  poor  girl’s  overburdened  heart  instantly 
opened,  and  she  timidly  and  briefly  imparted  some  particulars. 

Mr.  Wilson  listened  with  much  interest ; then  asking  for 
pen  and  paper,  he  wrote  very  intently  for  a few  minutes,  and  then 
placed  a note,  directed  to  one  of  the  first  publishers  of  the  day^ 
in  her  hand.  Take  this,  my  good  girl,”  he  said,  kindly  ; ''it 
will  at  least  gain  you  attention.  I wish  I could  do  more ; but 
you  know  w^e  must  be  just  before  we  are  generous;  and  if  I did 
all  I might  wish,  I should  be  wronging  my  own.  Do  not  look 
so  speechlessly  grateful,  my  child ; use  the  note  and  God  speed 
you.” 

And,  pressing  her  hand,  he  instantly  departed ; but  his  kind 
offices  did  not  stop  there.  The  day  was  unusually  fine,  and 
Mr.  Wilson  begged  a holiday  for  his  young  relatives,  ostensibly 
that  he  might  give  them  a drive,  but  really  that  Florence  might 
have  the  leisure  to  prosecute  her  mission  at  once  ; and  she  felt 
it  such,  for  her  heart  swelled  in  asking  a blessing  on  the  kind  old 
man,  though  he  would  not  return  to  her  schoolroom  to  hear  it. 

Anxiously,  yet  hopefully,  Florence  threaded  her  way  through 
the  huge  labyrinth  of  streets,  to  the  parks  in  the  vicinity  of 
which  the  publisher  resided.  The  note  gained  her  instant  at- 
tention, and  one  glance  sufficed  for  her  to  perceive  that  Mr. 
Morton  w^as  very  different  from  many  of  his  calling ; entering 
at  once  into  business,  he  candidly  stated  that  poetry,  unless  of 
the  very  first  kind,  was  the  most  unsaleable  sort  of  composition, 
but  added,  kindly,  "But  of  this  you  know^  we  cannot  judge 
till  we  have  perused  the  MS. ; have  you  it  with  you  ? ” 

She  answered  in  the  affirmative,  placing  as  she  did  so  the 
work  before  him.  Fie  saw  tliat  her  hand  trembled  and  her 


'W'OMAN’s  rr^IENDSHIP. 


127 


clieelv  paled,  and  said,  with  a smile,  '"Why,  were  it  not  for  my 
friend’s  note,  I should  say.  Miss  Leslie,  that  you  yourself  were 
the  author  ; we  seldom  see  a third  person  so  deeply  interested. 
You  have  not  been  playing  us  false,  have  you,  and  passing  off 
as  j^our  brother’s  that  which  is  your  own  ? ” 

Indeed,  sir,  I have  not ; but  when  I know  and  feel  how 
completely  the  being  of  a beloved  and  suffering  brother  is- 
bound  up  in  his  glorious  talent,  I cannot  be  otherwise  than 
agitated  ; a very  casual  glance  over  those  poems  will  convince 
you  that  no  woman’s  w^ork  is  there.” 

Surprised,  yet  prepossessed  by  her  unaffected  earnestness, 
Mr.  Morton,  after  some  further  conversation,  gave  his  whole' 
attention  for  nearly  half  an  hour  to  the  MS.  Florence  tried 
to  look  at  some  beautiful  prints  which  he  had  kindly  placed 
before  her,  but  a mist  was  before  her  eyes,  she  could  not  trace 
a figure. 

'‘You  are  right,”  he  said,  at  length;  "this  is  no  common 
work.  There  is  decided  genius,  not  alone  in  the  poems,  but  in 
the  illustrations  ; still,  in  the  present  state  of  literature,  even 
real  genius  has  much  to  contend  with.  Can  you  call  again  in  a few 
days?  Be  assured,”  he  added,  kindly,  "I  do  not  give  you  that 
trouble  because  I will  not  say  No  at  once.  I wish  to  think  how 
I can  best  serve  your  brother,  and  to  do  so  requires  a little  time.”^ 

With  every  limb  trembling,  every  accent  of  her  voice 
quivering,  Florence  poured  forth  her  acknowledgements,  and 
assuring  him  the  trouble  was  nothing,  the  following  Saturday 
was  the  day  fixed.  The  intervening  time  seemed  long,  for 
Florence  breathed  to  none  the  hope  that  would  arise  in  her 
own  breast.  When  she  again  sought  Mr.  Morton  he  told  her 
that  his  opinion  of  her  brother’s  genius  had  increased  with 
every  page  he  read  ; that  there  was  not  the  smallest  doubt  as 
to  its  ultimate  success.  He  candidly  stated  that  the  volume 
was  intrinsically  vrorth  much  more  than  he  could  well  afford 
to  pay,  and  he  thought  it  would  be  better  for  the  author  to 
incur  a little  risk  at  first  than  do  himself  such  injustice  as  to 
part  witli  the  copyright.  To  bring  the  work  out  as  its  merits 
demanded  would  cost  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  He  him- 
self would  risk  the  hundred,  if  Mr.  Leslie  w^ould  risk  the  fifty 
pounds ; the  profits  of  the  first  edition  should  be  equally 
divided  between  them. 

We  will  not  linger  on  the  emotion  of  poor  Florence  at  this 
generous  offer.  Morton,  indeed,  needed  little  in  reply ; his 


128 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


benevolent  nature  was  more  gratified  by  her  simple  yet  heart- 
felt acknowledgements  than  by  the  most  eloquent  words.  He 
would  call  on  her  brother,  he  said,  that  their  agreement  might 
be  fixed  in  black  and  white,  smiling  at  her  observation  that 
surely  such  a step  could  not  be  necessary. 

We  men  of  business  must  have  something  more  palpable 
than  honour,  my  young  friend ; besides,  I wish  to  know  this  glo- 
rious minded  fellow.  You  tell  me  he  is  ill,  so  ill  that  he  cannot 
leave  his  couch.  What  is  the  matter  with  him  ? ’’  Florence’s 
voice  quivered  painfully  as  she  replied,  but  Mr.  Morton’s 
evident  sympathy  led  her  not  only  to  relate  Walter’s  sufferings, 
but  her  own  secret  and  long-entertained  wish,  that  he  should 
have  better  medical  advice.  A gentleman  had  entered  some 
little  time  before,  and  perceiving  Morton  was  engaged,  had 
begged  him  to  continue  his  business  with  the  young  lady ; and 
apparently  on  very  intimate  terms  with  the  family,  threw  him- 
self on  an  easy  chair  and  took  up  a book,  to  which,  however, 
he  did  not  give  much  attention. 

And  this  young  man  is  a poet,  and  by  your  account, 
Morton,  no  common  one.  I am  sorry  for  it,”  was  the  quaint 
observation  which  recalled  his  presence  ; and  Florence  timidly 
looked  the  question,  ''  Why  ? ” 

Because,  young  lady,  too  often  the  mind  wears  out  the 
frame.  The  ph3^sician’s  skill  is  less  effectual  with  poets  than 
with  any  other  race  ; they  are  like  the  pelican  feeding  their 
offspring  with  their  own  blood,  and  are  then  surprised  that  we 
can  do  nothing  for  them.” 

Perhaps  you  will  go  with  me.  Sir  Charles,  and  see  if  this 
young  poet  be  as  wilful  as  others  of  his  craft,”  rejoined  Mr. 
Morton,  knowing  well  the  character  of  his  visitor,  and  en- 
couraged by  his  nod  of  assent. 

Florence  listened  bewildered  ; she  could  scarcely  believe  that 
her  wildest  wishes  might  be  realized,  and  that  the  object  of  her 
secret  longings,  the  great  physician,  who,  she  almost  believed, 
had,  under  Providence,  power  to  avert  death  itself,  w^ould  in- 
deed visit  her  brother,  and  might  perhaps  restore  him  to  health, 
as  he  had  so  mercifully  been  permitted  to  restore  others  : and 
Mr.  Morton  had  led  her  down  stairs,  had  advised  her  not  to 
tell  her  brother  that  a physician  would  accompany  him,  fearing 
to  excite  him,  and  had  parted  from  her  with  the  greatest  kind- 
ness, ere  she  could  collect  her  scattered  thoughts  sufficiently 
to  arrange  and  define  them. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  CROSS  AND  CHAIN. — IS  THERE  NO  HOPE? 

It  so  happened  that  just  at  this  time  Mrs.  Leslie  was  staying 
with  a very  aged  relation  in  the  country  ; and,  for  one  reason, 
Florence  rejoiced  that  she  was  absent.  As  soon  as  collected 
thought  returned,  she  began  to  consider  how  the  necessary 
fifty  pounds  could  be  raised  with  the  least  inconvenience, 
and  without  calling  on  her  mother.  She  recollected  that  from 
teaching  and  work,  she  and  Minie  had  laid  aside  fifteen  pounds 
for  chance  demands — debts  they  had  none — and  they  expected 
in  a few  days  a good  price  for  some  delicate  fancy  work ; still 
this  would  not  make  up  half  the  sum.  The  only  valuable 
trinkets  she  possessed  were  Lady  St.  Maur's  gifts,  the  cross 
and  chain,  the  emeralds  in  which,  she  had  often  been  told, 
were  exceedingly  rare  and  valuable ; but  how  could  she  part 
with  them? 

She  saw,  after  his  first  feelings  of  delight,  that  Walter, 
though  he  said  nothing,  shrunk  painfully  from  the  idea  that  it 
might  be  months  before  the  small  sum  required  from  him 
could  be  paid.  Had  he  been  in  health,  and  so  enabled  to 
work  himself,  these  thoughts  would  have  had  no  power ; but 
with  all  the  torturing  weakness  of  disease,  they  haunted  him 
night  and  day.  Florence  saw  this,  and  acted  accordingly. 

About  a week  after  this  arrangement  with  Mr.  Morton,  and 
before  he  called,  she  placed  a pocket-book  containing  bank- 
notes to  the  specified  amount  in  her  brother  s hands. 

‘‘Florence,’'  he  exclaimed,  starting  up,  the  languor  of 
suffering  for  the  moment  banished,  “ Florence,  dearest,  how 
have  you  done  this  ? Oh  ! do  not  tell  me  you  have  sacrificed 
Rught  of  comfort  or  of  personal  necessities — weak,  selfish, 
tormenting  as  disease  has  made  me,  I could  not  bear  such  a 
thought — how  have  you  obtained  this  ? ” 

“ S^uppose  I refuse  to  tell  you,  Walter  ; I think  I have  some 
right  to  enjoy  my  secret ; will  you  be  satisfied  if  I solemnly 
assure  you  I have  sacrificed  nothing  that  was  either  of  use  or 
comfort  ? some  useless  trinkets.” 

K 


130 


woman’s  feiendship. 


Trinkets  ! useless  trinkets ! Ah,  Florence,  dearest,  how 
can  I bear  the  thought  that  you  have  parted  with  your  few 
valuables  for  me  ! ” 

You  shall  give  me  handsomer,  Walter ; I shall  expect  a 
casket  of  gems  from  the  earnings  of  your  first  brilliant 
successful  work ; what  need  of  them  have  I now  ? When  you 
raise  me  to  a higher  grade,  where  ornaments  are  worn,  you 
shall  return  them  to  me.” 

She  spoke  with  a smile  so  fond,  that  her  brother  guessed 
not  how,  in  parting  with  her  only  jewel  of  value,  she  felt  as  if 
even  memory  had  become  as  powerless  as  hope,  and  every  link 
between  the  past  and  present  snapped  for  ever. 

My  work  may  give  you  them,  my  darling  sister,  but  not 
Walter,”  he  answered,  faintly  ; ‘‘I  shall  have  gone  to  my  long 
home  ere  these  things  may  be.” 

Oh,  do  not,  do  not  say  so,  Walter ; the  reviving  spring 
will  soon  be  here,  and  relieved  as  your  mind  is  of  this  en- 
grossing wish — oh,  you  wull  live — you  will  be  spared  to  bless 
us  all.” 

He  shook  his  head  mournfully,  but  kissed  her  fondly,  and 
changed  the  subject. 

In  a few  days  Mr.  Morton  and  his  friend  came.  The  flush 
of  excitement  burned  on  Walters  cheek;  his  thin  hand  so 
trembled,  he  could  hardly  sign  his  name,  and  the  perspiration 
streamed  with  the  effort  from  his  forehead.  Florence  had 
lingered  to  try  and  read  Sir  Charles’s  opinion  on  his  counte- 
nance ; but  it  would  not  change,  and,  unable  to  bear  the 
deadly  faintness  of  suspense,  she  glided  from  the  apartment;, 
satisfied  that  Minie  would  supply  her  place. 

‘‘You  are  really  premature,  my  good  friend,”  Mr.  Morton 
said,  as  after  a lengthened  conversation  full  of  the  deepest 
interest  and  comfort  to  Walter,  he  gave  the  pocket-book,  and 
Morton  looked  on  its  contents  with  surprise.  “ There  would 
have  been  time  enough  for  this,  when  the  book  was  in  print, 
and  circulating.  You  had  better  keep  this  money  for  little 
luxuries  which  an  invalid  like  yourself  must  need.” 

Walter  paused  a moment,  then  saying,  “Minie,  dear,  I 
wish  you  would  look  in  my  room  for  the  book  I wanted  to 
show  Mr.  Morton.  Florence  will  tell  you  where  it  is.”  He 
waited  till  she  left  the  room,  then  laying  his  hand  on 
Mr.  Morton’s  arm,  said  expressively,  “ Mr.  Morton,  that  hour 
I shall  never  see  ; let  me,  then,  have  the  happiness,  the  relief 


woman’s  friendship. 


131 


of  feeling  that  I die  leaving  no  debt  as  a burden  on  my  poor 
family  ; do  not  refuse  it  My  own,  in  truth,  it  is  not,  for  my 
devoted  sisters  have  compelled  me  to  accept  it  for  this  purpose, 
simply  to  relieve  my  mind  of  the  load  that  weighed  upon  it : 
take  it,  and  I shall  feel  that  I have  not  an  individual  care. 
Your  assurance,  that  in  time  it  must  succeed,  removes  all  fear 
for  my  sisters ; their  generous  love  will  be  repaid.” 

Much  affected,  Morton  pressed  his  hand,  and  entreated  him 
to  set  his  mind  at  rest,  and  not  to  dwell  on  such  gloomy 
fancies — he  was  sure  they  had  no  foundation.  If  Florence 
had  still  been  in  the  room,  she  would  not  have  watched 
Sir  Charles’s  expressive  countenance  in  vain  : a mournful 
interest  first  removed  the  unimpassioned  calm  : then  strong 
emotion,  and  finally  he  rose  from  his  seat  and  strode  to  the 
window.  Kecalled  by  Morton  s question  if  he  could  not 
prescribe  for  Mr.  Leslie,  to  prevent  such  a constant  recur- 
rence of  excitement ; he  asked  no  question,  but  hastily  wrote 
a prescription,  saying  as  he  did  so — 

‘^This  will  calm,  I wish  I could  say  cure,  young  man; 
change  your  ardent  temperament,  your  throbbing  brain,  for 
the  matter  of  fact,  the  unimpassioned,  and  health  may 
return.” 

Change  ! ” responded  Walter,  clasping  his  hands  with 
strong  emotion — '^change! — become  like  the  crowd — the 
hireling  herd — that  know  no  emotion  but  interest,  no  love  but 
for  gold — with  no  vision  of  beauty,  of  truth,  of  good.  No, 
no;  better  twenty  years  of  suffering  body  with  mental  joy, 
than  seventy  of  such  health  and  such  existence.  I would  not 
change ! ” 

But  though  Florence  could  not  summon  sufficient  courage 
to  remain  while  the  interview  lasted,  suspense  became  so 
intolerable  that  she  felt  as  if  the  most  dreaded  reality  could 
be  better  borne.  Hardly  knowing  her  own  intentions,  she 
waited  in  a little  sitting-room  below,  till  they  descended ; 
then  springing  forward,  she  caught  hold  of  Sir  Charles’s  hand, 
and  looked  up  in  his  faee  with  cheeks  and  lips  perfectly 
blanched,  and  every  effort  to  speak  died  away  in  indistinct 
murmurs.  Only  too  well  accustomed  to  such  painful  scenes, 
the  physician  gently  led  her  within  the  parlour  and  closed  the 
door  ; the  action  recalled  voice,  and  she  gasped  forth — 

Oh  1 is  there  not  hope  ? will  you  not  save  him  ? Tell  me 
he  will  not  die  ! ” 


132 


woman’s  friendship. 


My  good  young  lady,  life  and  death  are  not  in  the  hands 
of  man  ; yet  it  were  cruel,  unwisely  cruel,  to  give  you  hope. 
Your  brother’s  mind  has  been  his  poison — I dare  not  tell  you 
— he  may  live.” 

‘‘  But  he  will  linger — he  may  be  spared  us  many  years  yet,” 
persisted  Florence,  in  the  wild  accents  of  one  determined 
against  belief.  ‘‘It  cannot  be  that  he  will  go  now — so  young — 

so ^but  forgive  me,”  she  added,  when  the  hysterical  sobs 

gave  way,  “ tell  me,  I am  better  now — I can  bear  it — I ought 
to  know,  for  my  poor  mother  s sake,  how  long  we  may  call 
him  ours  ?” 

The  reply  was  given  kindly  and  carefully ; but  what  lan- 
guage, what  gentleness  may  soften  the  bitter  anguish  of  such 
words  ? Florence  heard,  and  yet  she  sank  not.  She  bade 
farewell  to  those  kind  friends  ; she  saw  them  go,  but  still  she 
stood  as  if  thought,  sense,  life  itself  were  frozen ; and  then 
she  rushed  up  stairs  into  her  own  room,  secured  the  door,  and 
sinking  on  her  knees,  buried  her  face  in  the  bedclothes,  and 
her  slight  frame  shook  beneath  its  agony. 

Another  hour,  and  that  suffering  girl  was  seated  by  her 
brother’s  couch,  holding  his  hand  in  hers,  and  with  a marble 
cheek,  but  faint,  sweet  smile,  listening  to,  and  sympathising 
in  his  lovely  dreams  of  fame.  And  such  is  woman, — her  tears 
are  with  her  God,  her  smile  with  man  ; the  heart  may  break, 
and  who  shall  know  it  ? 

Mr.  Morton  had  suggested  a frontispiece  as  an  improvement 
to  his  book,  and  Walter’s  every  energy  now  turned  to  the 
composition  of  a picture  from  which  the  print  might  be 
engraven.  He  had  resolved  not  to  put  his  name  to  the 
publication,  and  therefore  felt  that  a group  entitled  “ The 
Poet’s  Home”  could  convey  no  identity ; and  he  com- 
menced his  task  with  an  ardour  and  enjoyment,  strangely 
at  variance  with  the  prostrating  languor  of  disease.  Who 
that  has  watched  the  workings  of  the  mind  and  spirit,  as  the 
human  frame  decays,  can  doubt  our  immortality  ? How  can 
the  awful  creed  of  materialism  exist  with  the  view  of  that 
bright  light  of  mind  shining  purer  and  brighter  with  every 
hour  that  brings  death  nearer  ? Life  may  afford  matter  for 
the  sceptic  and  the  materialist  to  weave  their  fearful  theories 
upon,  though  we  know  not  how  it  can  ; but  let  such  look  on 
the  approach  of  sure  yet  lingering  death,  and  how  will  they 
retain  them  then  ? 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


THE  poet’s  home. — HE  DIES. 


News,  joyful  news,  Florence ! I am  so  glad  that  you  have 
come  at  length,”  was  Minie  Leslie’s  gleesome  greeting  to  her 
sister,  on  her  return  from  her  daily  duty,  about  the  middle  of 
the  month  of  April.  How  tired  you  look ! I do  wish  you 
would  let  me  go  for  you  sometimes and  she  insisted  on  re- 
moving Florence’s  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  forced  her  to  sit 
down.  Florence  was  indeed  weary  and  dispirited,  weighed 
down  by  the  thought  that  every  morning  she  left  home  might 
be  her  last  look  upon  her  brother.  How  little  did  her  em- 
ployers know  the  burden  that  she  bore,  looking  on  her  as  an 
inanimate,  harmless  girl,  well  suited  for  her  daily  toil,  and 
nothing  more  ! But  weary  as  she  was,  she  met  Minie’s  fond 
kiss  with  one  as  fond,  and  a smile  as  sweet. 

‘^And  what  is  this  joyous  news,  Minie  dear?  Do  not  play 
with  my  curiosity  too  long.” 

“ Listen,  Flory,  you  shall  have  it  in  all  the  pompous  language 
of  the  aristocratic  Morning  Post,”  and  taking  up  the  paper, 
she  read  in  mock  heroic  tones — 

We  are  truly  rejoiced  to  state  that  the  Right  Hon.  Edmund 
Baron  St.  Maur,  and  his  beautiful  and  accomplished  lady,  with 
their  suite,  are  confidently  expected  to  arrive  m England  the 
first  week  in  May : the  noble  lord’s  health,  we  understand,  is 
so  perfectly  re-established,  that  no  danger  is  apprehended  from 
his  permanent  residence  in  his  native  country.  We  have  heard 
it  whispered  that  for  his  beneficial  exertions  in  the  courts  of 
Italy  and  Paris,  and  other  diplomatic  services,  an  earldom  will 
be  granted  him,  a dignity  seldom  so  well  deserved.  For  his 
lady  we  have  only  to  state,  that  the  extraordinary  beauty  of 
the  Lady  Ida  Villiers  has  not  yet  faded  from  the  minds  of  her 
countrymen,  and  that  the  united  testimony  of  the  Italian  and 


134 


woman’s  friendship. 


French  courts  would  inform  us,  if  she  have  lost  the  charms  of 
girlhood,  she  has  acquired  others  more  dazzling  still.” 

“ Now,  I should  very  much  like  to  know  who  put  that  puff 
in.  How  Lady  St.  Maur  would  laugh  at  it  herself ! But  is 
it  not  delightful  she  is  coming  home  ? ” 

Florence  did  not  answer,  she  was  leaning  over  her  brother’s 
couch,  and  thinking ; oh,  what  a bright  stream  of  thought 
came  leaping  and  sparkling  over  her  mind,  carrying  it  back 
with  tlie  visions  it  brought.  She  felt  her  brother’s  arm  thrown 
round  her,  and  that  simple  action  deprived  her  of  all  self- 
control  ; her  head  sunk  on  his  bosom,  and  she  burst  into 
tears. 

Minie  was  bewildered,  her  simple  guilelessness  could  not 
enter  into  her  sister’s  feelings,  nor  did  Mrs.  Leslie’s  gentle 
explanation  succeed  in  convincing  her  that  anything  like  the 
loss  of  fortune  and  a lower  station  could  or  ought  to  affect 
friendship.  In  vain  were  all  her  mother’s  representations  of 
the  customs  of  society — its  convenances^  we  should  say,  if  a 
French  word  may  be  permitted ; she  persisted  that  in  this  case 
they  had  no  weight,  and  ended  by  declaring,  that  if  she  wxre 
mistaken,  and  Lady  St.  Maur  made  no  exertion  to  renew  her 
kindness,  she  would  take  care  how  she  loved  or  trusted  beyond 
the  hallowed  circle  of  her  own  home. 

Walter  continued  to  work  at  his  cherished  picture  as  perse- 
veringly  as  his  waning  strength  allowed.  It  represented  the 
interior  of  a cottage-room,  well  remembered  by  Florence  as 
that  of  her  dearly-loved  home  in  Devonshire  : a glow,  as  from 
a brilliantly  setting  sun,  streamed  through  the  large  French 
window  which  opened  on  a view  of  hill  and  wood,  and  distant 
ocean ; a couch,  the  draperies  of  which  well  harmonized  with 
the  lights  and  shadows  of  the  background,  stood  as  drawn 
forward,  that  the  breeze  of  evening  might  play  upon  its  occu- 
pant, in  whose  languid  frame  and  attenuated  but  most  striking 
features  Walter  had  thrown  the  characteristic  likeness  of  him- 
self ; close  at  his  side,  employed  in  arranging  flowers  in  a vase 
upon  a table  near  them,  he  had  placed  Florence ; near  them, 
on  her  own  arm-chair,  with  one  hand  laid  fondly  on  the  rich 
golden  hair  of  her  younger  girl,  was  his  mother — a beautiful 
likeness — for  the  son  knew  so  well  the  character  of  his  mother, 
no  marvel  the  artist  could  not  fail.  Minie’s  guitar  was  in  her 
lap,  one  hand  carelessly  sweeping  its  strings,  while  her  head 
was  thrown  back,  and  her  beaming  countenance  looked  up  in 


woman’s  feiendship. 


135 


lier  motlier’s  face  with  her  own  arch  mischief-loving  smile. 
The  pencil  of  the  artist  lingered  on  these  lovely  forms,  as  if 
each  day  that  whispered  his  own  departure  nearer,  bound  them 
closer  to  his  heart,  and  he  sought  indelibly  to  join  his  form  and 
face  wdth  theirs,  leaving  them  one  fond  enduring  trace,  ere  he 
passed  away  for  ever. 

May  came  with  her  sweet  flowers  and  reviving  breath ; even 
the  environs  of  the  huge  metropolis  looked  smiling  in  summer, 
and  the  air  came  heated  with  the  flood  of  warmth  and  light 
from  the  cloudless  sun.  The  season  was  unusually  hot,  and 
Florence,  almost  to  her  surprise,  felt  her  daily  walks  far  more 
w^earisome  and  exhausting  than  they  had  been  in  the  winter. 
With  the  heat,  Walter’s  feverish  restlessness  increased,  often 
bringing  temporary  delirium  ; but  his  fancies  even  then  were 
full  of  poetry,  and  love,  and  hope ; and  in  those  hours  of 
suffering,  the  presence  of  Florence  seemed  so  to  soothe  him 
that  even  when  his  fancy  wandered,  he  was  still  conscious  of 
her  presence.  It  was  not  very  remarkable  that  her  health 
began  visibly  to  fail,  though  so  great  was  her  meek  endurance; 
her  silent  energy,  that  still  uncomplainingly  she  struggled  on, 
only  praying  that  while  Walter  needed  her  care  she  might  not 
fail. 

And  those  nights,  though  exhausting  to  the  frame,  were 
often  thrice  blessed  in  their  communings  with  a spirit  so  soon 
about  to  seek  that  blissful  bourne  from  whence  no  traveller 
returns ; when  not  disabled  by  fever,  his  converse  was  all  of 
heaven,  as  if  its  glory  and  its  blessedness  were  already  fully 
revealed,  and  as  she  listened  to  him,  Florence  felt  as  if  those 
words  were  inspired  to  be  her  comfort  hereafter. 

There  was  a time  I feared  to  die  for  your  sakes,  my  beloved 
ones,”  he  said,  in  one  of  these  communings ; but  my  God 
hath  been  so  merciful,  my  Florence.  His  spirit  hath  come  to 
remove  these  doubts,  and  lead  me  to  put  my  whole  trust  in 
Him,  who  my  mother  first  taught  mo  would  provide.  Oh ! 
what  a blessing  has  her  religion  been  to  me  in  this  trial ! Tell 
her  this  when  I am  gone ; she  cannot  bear  it  now,  but  it  will 
soothe  her  then ; tell  her,  the  prayers  she  taught  my  infant 
lips,  return  when  fever  prevents  all  other,  and  I know  that 
they  are  heard,  they  bring  such  peace.” 

‘"And  have  you  no  wish,  my  Walter?” 

“ I have  no  earthly  wish,  my  Florence  ; my  soul  departs,  my 
frame  wiU  crumble  to  its  parent  dust,  but  the  aspirations  of 


136 


WOMANS  FRIENDSHIP. 


mind  remain;  my  longing  for  the  good,  the  beautiful,  the 
infinite,  will  all  be  filled  in  heaven  ; and  I have  no  wish,  save 
to  linger  till  my  last  fond  task  is  done,  and  perhaps  another — 
but  it  is  such  folly — ” 

‘"Tell  it  me,  dear  Walter.” 

“ Let  them  lay  me  where  grass  and  flowers  may  grow  above 
me,  Florence ; do  not  let  them  cover  my  grave  with  the  cold 
flagstones  that  mark  the  city  tombs — 'tis  an  idle  wish,  yet  it 
haunts  me.  I would  rather  that  children  s feet  should  press 
the  turf,  and  tiny  hands  pluck  the  flowers,  than  stony  walls 
surround  me  ; and  let  them  stamp  upon  the  headstone  simple 
words,  no  laboured  epitaph,  only  that  I felt  my  Father  loved 
me,  and  so  He  called  me  to  his  throne.” 

And  Florence  promised ; and  though  her  heart  was  full  of 
tears,  she  could  not  weep.  Many  scenes  of  life  are  holy — the 
early  morn,  the  twilight  hour,  the  starry  night,  the  rolling 
storm,  the  hymn  of  thousands  from  the  sacred  fane,  the 
marriage  rite,  or  funeral  dirge ; but  none  more  holy  than  the 
chamber  of  the  dying,  lingering  beside  a departing  spirit, 
seeming  as  if  already  the  angel  shone  above  the  mortal,  waiting 
but  the  eternal  summons  to  wing  his  flight  on  high. 

One  evening  Walter’s  couch  had  been  drawn  near  the  open 
casement,  which  looked  into  the  garden  at  the  back  of  the 
house ; and  even  the  dusty  green  and  scentless  flowers,  peculiar 
to  the  environs  of  London,  were  grateful  to  the  poet.  He  was 
propped  up  with  pillows,  and  his  hand  was  yet  busy  on  the 
canvas,  giving  the  last  touches  to  his  picture. 

All  was  completed  but  the  figure  of  Minie,  Avho  was  sitting 
in  the  required  attitude ; but  it  was  well  he  had  not 
waited  till  that  moment  to  give  the  joyous  expression  he  so 
much  loved. 

An  hour  passed,  and  no  movement,  no  sound  disturbed 
that  little  party : the  hand  of  the  artist  moved  languidly, 
but  still  it  moved,  and  the  concluding  touches  started  into  life 
beneath  it.  Sometimes  his  eyes  would  close,  and  then,  after 
a brief  interval  of  rest,  reopen  to  look  upon  his  task. 

Florence  had  not  yet  returned,  having  gone  out  of  her  way 
to  purchase  some  fresh  flowers,  as  was  her  custom  every  third 
day,  in  spite  of  Walter  s remonstrances  : the  intense  delight 
which  they  always  gave  him  was  too  visible  to  permit  any 
cessation  of  the  indulgence  ; that  she  deprived  herself  of  many 
little  necessaries,  and,  exhausted  and  weary,  never  rode  to  her 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


137 


pupils,  that  she  might  save  to  purchase  luxuries  for  him,  he 
never  knew.  She  often  recalled  Emily  Melford  s horror  of  exer- 
tion, and  half  smiled  at  the  widely  different  meanings  that 
word  bore  in  their  respective  vocabularies ; but  a bitter  feeling 
mingled  with  the  smile  at  her  own  credulity  in  Emily’s  pro- 
fession of  interest  and  regard : from  the  day  she  had  sought 
her  to  the  present  moment,  a full  year,  she  had  rested  as  silent 
and  indifferent  as  before. 

As  Florence  came  within  sight  of  the  bay-windows  of  her 
house,  she  fancied  that  she  could  distinguish  the  figure  of 
Walter,  looking  down  the  road,  as  if  watching  her  return. 
She  was  surprised,  because,  since  his  increasing  illness,  they 
had  changed  their  apartments  from  the  front  to  the  back 
sitting-room,  in  order  to  give  him  more  quiet  and  fresh  air 
than  the  dusty  road  afforded.  What  he  could  be  doing  there 
she  could  not  conceive,  for  even  if  he  were  anxious  for  her 
return,  and  wished  to  watch  for  her,  he  surely  had  not  suffi- 
cient strength  to  walk  from  one  room  to  another,  and  there 
remain  standing  so  that  she  could  distinguish  his  full  figure. 
Hope  flashed  on  her  heart  that  he  was  better.  Some  extra- 
ordinary change  must  have  taken  place,  and  he  might  yet 
live ! Oh,  what  a sudden  thrill  came  with  that  fond 
thought ! and  she  hurried,  almost  ran  the  intervening  space. 
Breathless  she  entered  the  house,  and  sprang  up  the 
staircase. 

‘^What,  settled  again  so  soon  at  your  drawing,  dearest 
Walter,  and  only  a minute  ago  I saw  you  beckoning  me  from 
the  next  room — how  could  you  stand  there  so  long  ?” 

Mrs.  Leslie  put  her  finger  on  her  lips.  '^You  have  been 
strangely  deceived,  my  love;  Walter  has  not  quitted  this  room 
nor  this  posture  for  some  hours.  Come  softly,  I think  he 
sleeps.” 

No  word,  no  cry  passed  the  lips  of  Florence,  although  a 
pang,  sharp  as  if  every  drop  of  blood  was  turned  to  ice, 
curdled  through  her  frame.  She  knew  she  was  not  deceived. 
As  surely  as  she  now  looked  on  him,  she  felt  she  had  seen  him 
smile,  as  if  to  bid  her  hasten  home,  not  ten  minutes  before, 
and  with  a fleet  and  noiseless  step  she  stood  beside  him.  The 
pencil  was  still  within  his  hand,  but  it  moved  no  longer  on  the 
canvas — the  eyes  were  closed,  the  lips  were  parted  ; she  bent 
down  her  head  and  pressed  her  lips  upon  his  brow — it  was 
marbly  cold. 


138 


woman’s  friendship. 


‘^Walter!”  she  shrieked,  for  in  that  dread  moment  she  knew 
not  what  she  did.  ‘‘Walter — my  brother — speak  to  me — look 
on  me  again !” 

For  a moment  she  stood  as  if  waiting  for  the  look,  the  voice 
she  called  ; then,  pressing  her  hands  wildly  to  her  brow,  sought 
to  collect  thought,  energy,  control,  for  her  poor  mother’s 
sake — but  all,  all  failed — and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she 
sunk  down  in  a deep  and  death-like  swoon. 


Daqe  138. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


THE  EETUEH  TO  ENGLAND. — A HAPPY  WIPE. — THE  FAMILY 
MEETING. 


That  same  evening,  nay,  the  same  hour,  which  shook  from  its 
mourning  pinions  such  heavy  sorrow  on  that  lowly  home,  came 
radiant  with  sunshine  and  glee,  and  the  voice  of  mirth  and 
song  and  welcome,  to  Lord  Edgemere’s  stately  mansion  in  St. 
James’s. 

Lord  and  Lady  St.  Maur  had  that  day  arrived  in  England, 
and  Lord  Edgemere,  with  his  usual  hospitality,  had  invited 
every  relative  or  connection  on  either  side,  to  give  them 
welcome.  There  were  very  many  to  whom  Lord  and  Lady  St. 
Maur  had  to  be  introduced,  for  births  and  marriages  had 
multiplied  the  circle ; nor  were  their  own  three  lovely  children 
less  objects  of  attraction  than  themselves. 

Surely  if  there  be  real  joy  on  earth,  it  is  found  in  the  hour 
of  meeting — alloy,  indeed,  it  must  have,  for  few  are  the  hearts 
on  whom  five  years  may  pass  and  leave  no  trace  ; but  to  Lady 
St.  Maur  it  was  perfect  as  earth  can  make  it.  She  had  left 
England  anxious  and  sorrowing ; not  knowing  even  if  the 
beloved  one,  to  whom  she  had  pledged  her  maiden  heart, 
might  even  then  be  spared  to  claim  her  as  his  own. 

She  returned  a happy  wife,  a doting  mother — not  a death 
had  snatched  away  one  whom  she  had  left  behind,  and  the 
hour  of  meeting  was  not  one  to  call  up  the  cold  doubt  and 
dark  mistrust  as  to  the  permanence  and  truth  of  the  profes- 
sions which  it  elicited.  Single-hearted,  truthful,  the  very 
child  of  nature  herself.  Lady  St.  Maur  felt  only  happiness, 
rejoicing  in  seeing  again  around  her  familiar  faces,  and  yet 
more  familiar  things.  The  very  pride,  the  very  coldness  for 
which  she  had  been  so  often  blamed,  when  her  engagement 
had  been  the  theme  of  every  tongue,  were  now  no  longer 
visible  ; and  some  there  were  who  could  scarcely  have  recog- 
nised in  the  Baroness  St.  Maur  the  Lady  Ida  Viliiers  of  former 
years. 


140 


WOMANS  FKIENDSHIP. 


So,  I am  to  be  one  of  the  family,  though  claiming  not  tho 
tenth  part  of  a Scotch  cousinship  with  any  one  here  present,’' 
was  the  bluff  greeting  of  Sir  Charles  Brashleigh,  as  he  entered 
^^Lord  Edgemere,  you  are  always  kind,  but  to-night  kinder 
than  ever.  Where’s  the  rebel  whom  I exiled  five  years  ago  ? 
Baron  St.  Maur,  stand  forth  ! Hey,  what,  do  you  mean  to 
impose  yourself  on  me  for  my  patient,  young  man  ? Pshaw  I 
you  are  in  far  too  good  condition  for  me  to  claim  acquaintance 
with  you,”  he  continued,  laughing,  as  Lord  St.  Maur,  his  mother, 
and  wife  hastened  from  their  respective  circles  and  crowded 
round  him. 

Indeed,  Sir  Charles,  instead  of  rebellious,  I claim  a reward 
for  submission,  patience,  and  a whole  host  of  saintly  virtues,” 
was  the  joyous  reply.  '^Here  have  I been  perfectly  well  for 
three  full  years,  and  yet  in  simple  obedience  to  your  command 
remained  in  Italy,  when  my  whole  heart  was  in  my  own 
country.” 

Ida  is  extremely  obliged  to  you,  Edmund,”  mischievously 
interposed  Alfred  Melford. 

So  much  so,”  said  Lady  Ida,  that  I will  expose  him.  Sir 
Charles,  give  him  no  particle  of  credit  for  obedience ; he  has 
been  quite  as  impatient,  and  rebellious,  and  disloyal  as  you 
can  possibly  fancy;  it  is  only  to  me  and  Lady  Helen  that  your 
praise  is  in  any  way  due.” 

^'Is  it  so,  fair  lady?  Your  lord  does  look  somewhat  guilty, 
I must  confess.  However,  as  he  has  brought  me  back  some 
pound  or  two  more  of  flesh,  and  a proper  shade  of  colour,  we 
will  be  merciful,  and  pronounce  that,  voluntarily  or  not,  he 
has  kept  the  term  of  exile  well.  Lady  Helen,  Italy  has  been 
the  elixir  of  life  to  you.  If  I want  to  grow  young,  I will  go 
there  too.  Lady  St.  Maur,  by  the  way,  I believe  six  or  seven 
years  ago  you  and  I were  sworn  foes ; are  we  friends  now  ? 
Now,  do  not  look  so  prettily  bewildered ; there  w^as  a time 
when  a fair  girl  w^anted  to  marry  a dying  man,  and  sacrifice 
her  bloom  and  her  joy  in  nursing  him,  and  I,  like  a monster  of 
cruelty,  placed  my  ban  upon  it^  and,  under  Providence,  saved 
both.  Am  I forgiven  ? I do  not  think  we  ever  shook  hands 
at  parting.” 

Now  I will  return  good  for  evil.  Sir  Charles,  and  pray  you 
to  forgive  her,”  answered  her  husband  fondly,  as  Lady  St. 
Maur  placed  both  hands  in  those  of  Sir  Charles,  and  looked  up 
in  his  face  without  speaking,  save  through  her  glistening  eyes. 


woman’s  friendship. 


141 


“ If  you  knew  how  often  she  has  repented  her  injustice,  and 
spoken  of  your  skill,  as,  under  Heaven,  the  author  of  her  joy.’’ 

“There,  then,  is  the  kiss  of  peace,”  replied  Sir  Charles, 
suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  and  bending  his  lips  to  her 
brow,  adding  joyously,  “You  are  a happy  fellow,  Edmund! 
but  where  are  your  children  ? Ah  ! Lady  Helen  is  bringing 
them.  How  strange  their  grandmammas  think  of  those  things 
more  than  mammas  ! ” and  after  playfully  caressing  them,  he 
<3ontinued,  “Lady  St.  Maur,  as  your  husband  left  his  heart  in 
England,  though  you  were  by  his  side,  has  the  dolce  far  niente 
of  Italy  retained  any  part  of  yours  ? ” 

“ Not  the  hundredth  part  of  a particle,  Sir  Charles.  I have 
been  too  happy  not  to  love  Italy  ; but  give  me  England  for  a 
home.” 

“Well,  if  I could  be  transported  to  Italy  without  any 
trouble,  its  dolce  far  niente  must  be  heaven  upon  earth,”  said 
Emily  Melford,  so  gravely,  and  with  so  deep  a sigh,  as  to  cause 
a burst  of  laughter  round  her.  Sir  Charles  Brashleigh  singled 
her  out  on  the  instant,  and  greeted  her  by  a mock  heroic  bow. 

“ The  Honourable  Miss  Emily  Melford  absolutely  trans- 
planted from  the  blue  and  buff  chaise  longue  of  Belgrave- 
square  ! Young  lady,  I give  you  all  the  joy  you  will  take  the 
trouble  to  receive.  What  miracle  has  wrought  this  change  ? ” 

Lady  St.  Maur  looked  at  him,  surprised,  and  going  to  the 
sofa  where  her  cousin  sat,  put  her  arm  affectionately  round  her. 

“Not  very  wonderful.  Sir  Charles,  considering  Emily  has 
not  seen  me  so  long.  I find  nothing  very  remarkable  about 
her,  except — ” 

“ Except  that  she  is  looking  better  and  stouter  than  when 
you  left,”  interrupted  the  physician,  slily. 

“ Sir  Charles,  good  looks  are  not  always  the  criterion  of 
good  health,”  answered  Emily,  pettishly.  “ That  you  do  not 
consider  me  worthy  of  your'  attention,  is  no  proof  I do  not 
require  medical  care — you  will  do  nothing  for  me.” 

“ Because,  my  good  young  lady,  you  can  do  more  for  your- 
self, and  I never  take  fees  where  I cannot  cure.  As  for  the 
dolce  far  niente  of  Italy,  you  need  not  go  so  far  to  find  it,  for 
I rather  believe  it  is  discoverable  in  a certain  boudoir  in 
Bclgrave-square.  ” 

“ Emily,  how  can  you  let  Sir  Charles  laugh  at  you  in  this 
manner  ?”  exclaimed  her  brother;  “I  would  rather  go  to  work 
>six  hours  in  every  twelve.” 


142 


■woman’s  friendship. 


Do  you  not  know,  Frederick,  Emily  is  proverbially  good- 
natured,  and  would  not  interrupt  anybody’s  amusement,  even 
at  her  own  expense  ? ” 

You  should  rather  admire  than  blame  me,  Mary.” 

So  I do,  my  dear ! I like  everybody  to  be  happy  in  their 
own  way.” 

Happy ! Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  I am  happy,  Mary  ? ” 

Indeed,  I know  no  person  who  ought  to  be  happier  than 
yourself,  Emily.  My  dear  Ida,  you  look  as  if  you  did  not 
understand  this  at  all,  you  will  learn  all  in  time.” 

I hope  I shall,  Mary,”  she  replied,  laughing ; ^^but  what  is 
the  matter  with  Emily,  and  why  is  she  the  universal  object  of 
attack  ? ” 

‘"Because  nobody  chooses  to  believe  I am  ill,  Ida;  but  never 
mind  me  for  the  present ! ” 

Lady  St.  Maur  looked  earnestly  at  her  cousin ; and  that 
look  recalled  the  former  years,  when,  in  spite  of  many  follies, 
Emily  would  have  shrunk  with  horror  from  the  selfishness,  the 
indolence,  of  which  she  had  now  become  the  unresisting  victim. 

“What  can  keep  Frank  Howard  so  late?”  observed  Lord 
Edgemere,  as  a pause  in  the  conversation  around  him  joermitted 
the  remark.  “ Henry,  did  you  tell  him  we  expected  him  ? ” 

His  son  replied  in  the  affirmative,  and  Lord  St.  Maur 
inquired — 

“By  the  way,  Frank  is  in  the  House,  is  he  not?  Has  he 
distinguished  himself  ? ” 

“ Truly,  yes  ; an  eloquent  impassioned  youngster,  I under- 
stand, who  carries  all  along  with  him.” 

“ I am  glad  of  it ; he  is  so  peculiarly  situated,  from  the 
misanthropy  and  cold  selfishness  of  his  father,  that  I have 
quite  felt  for  him.  It  is  hard  upon  a young  man  to  have  no 
friend,  no  relative  in  his  public  career.” 

“ Friends,  St.  Maur ! why  he  has  gained  as  many  as  Lord 
Glenvylle’s  strange  conduct  lost.” 

“ Is  Glenvylle  still  as  complete  a cynic  as  he  was  in  Paris  ?” 

“ If  possible,  more  so ; he  seems  to  hold  converse  with  none 
but  his  steward,  except  when  he  takes  the  fancy  of  holding  a 
solemn  dinner,  which  defend  me  from  ever  attending  again.” 

“And  can  anvone  explain  the  mystery  about  him — who  was 
he?”  ^ ^ ^ 

“ In  his  youth,  I believe,  merely  a private  gentleman’s  son, 
and  a great  spendthrift,  squandering  money,  and  I fancy  repu- 


woman’s  friendship.  143 

tation,  on  the  Continent,  till  he  became  a disgrace  to  his  name, 
and  his  father  nearly  ruined  himself  in  changing  it.” 

‘‘  How  does  he  treat  his  son — kindly  ?” 

I really  cannot  tell,  but  I fancy,  capriciously ; sometimes 
a father,  sometimes  a tyrant,  according  to  his  mood.  Frank 
does  not  want  for  money,  or  any  of  the  appurtenances  of  his 
station,  though  Glenvylle  is  mean  and  miserly  to  himself ; and 
as  for  uttering  one  word  regarding  his  father,  except  in  terms 
of  the  deepest  respect,  I believe  he  would  rather  die.  Where 
Frank’s  warmth  of  heart  and  ingenuousness  sprang  from,  I 
cannot  fancy.” 

Perhaps  from  his  mother — who  was  she  ? ” 

One  of  the  Duke  of  Beaumont’s  daughters ; she  died  soon 
after  Frank’s  birth.  People  have  whispered  of  a broken  heart, 
from  discoveries  made  by  her  husband  when  he  was  under  the 
temporary  delirium  of  fever.” 

Unwilling  to  make  this  conversation  general.  Lord  St.  Maur 
turned  it  into  a more  desultory  channel ; and  not  long  after- 
wards, young  Howard  made  his  appearance,  even  more  ani- 
mated than  usual. 

I suppose,  Master  Frank,  as  you  saw  us  two  years  ago  in 
Eome,  you  have  made  no  manner  of  exertion  to  welcome  us  to 
England?  I am  half  inclined  not  to  speak  to  you,”  said 
Lady  St.  Maur,  sportively,  as,  after  warmly  greeting  her  hus- 
band, he  eagerly  advanced  towards  her.  You  have  not  the 
shadow  of  an  excuse  : the  House  does  not  meet  to-night ; and 
even  if  it  did,  we  arrived  here  early  enough  for  you  to  have 
greeted  us  five  hours  ago.  Do  you  deserve  my  mercy  ? ” 

“ I will  bear  any  sentence  your  ladyship  may  pronounce,” 
replied  the  young  man,  gaily,  if  on  hearing  my  tale  you  still 
deem  it  deserved.  I would  not  gratify  myself  by  seeing  you, 
till  I could  bring  my  sovereign’s  greetings  in  addition  to  my 
own.  I have  been  in  and  out  the  herald’s  office  the  whole  day, 
to  the  no  small  annoyance  of  its  worthy  functionaries ; and 
only  now  obtained  what  I wanted.  Here,  Melford,  read  out 
for  the  good  of  the  public,”  he  added  joyously,  throwing  the 
Gazette  into  Alfred  Melford’s  outstretched  hand;  ‘"and  to  you, 
my  lord,”  he  said,  giving  a large  sealed  packet  to  Lord  St. 
Maur,  '‘my  office  is  to  present  this.  Never  say  that  her 
Majesty  knows  not  how  to  discern  merit  and  reward  it,  but 
cry  God  bless  the  Queen,  and  long  life  to  the  Earl  and  Countess 
St.  Maur.” 


CHAPTER  XXVL 


EXCUSES  FOR  INDOLENCE. — THE  FRIEND  SEEKS  HER  FRIEND. 


For  several  weeks  a complete  whirl  of  gaiety  absorbed  the 
time  of  the  newly-created  Earl  and  Countess.  It  was  not  only 
the  very  height  of  the  London  season,  when  levees  and 
drawing-rooms  continually  recurring  compelled  their  atten- 
dance, but  their  long  absence  from  England  occasioned  a wider 
round  of  visiting  than  was  customary  even  to  the  gayest  of 
the  aristocracy.  Friends,  relatives,  family  connections,  all 
poured  in  upon  them  with  hospitality  and  proffered  kindness  ; 
and  yet  with  all  this  the  Earl  found  time  to  attend  not  only 
to  his  new  office  in  the  royal  cabinet,  but  to  literary  pursuits, 
and  yet  have  his  children  with  him  for  two  or  three  hours  in 
the  day  as  usual ; and  Lady  St.  Maur  found  leisure  to  read, 
as  was  her  invariable  custom,  with  her  husband,  that  is  to  say, 
to  read  what  he  read,  to  make  extracts  from  black-lettered 
folios,  if  he  had  not  time,  and  withal  attend  to  her  children  ; 
delighting  in  giving  her  little  girls  those  first  instructions 
which  many  mothers  leave  to  hirelings.  She  had  time,  too, 
to  enter  into  the  interests  of  all  her  friends;  to  perceive  with 
real  regret  the  state  of  nervous  irritability  into  which  Emily 
Melford  had  fallen ; and  more,  still  to  think  of  and  long  to 
know  something  certain  concerning  the  young  girl  who  had  so 
interested  her  just  before  she  had  quitted  England.  The 
belief  that  Florence  did  not  write  that  extraordinary  letter, 
and  that  in  consequence  she  had  some  secret  enemy,  had 
gained  such  powerful  influence  over  Lady  St.  Maur’s  mind, 
that,  though  never  spoken,  she  could  not  shake  it  off.  But 
how  to  obtain  this  information  ? In  the  midst  of  her  gaieties, 
her  domestic  pleasures,  her  many  claims,  still  she  found  herself 
repeatedly  thinking  of  Florence,  and  turning  over  every 
scheme,  practicable  or  impracticable,  for  discovering  her, 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


145 


without,  however,  any  prospect  of  success ; till  one  morning, 
about  two  months  after  her  arrival  in  England,  Alfred  Melford 
casually  mentioned  his  having  seen  her  former  favourite, 
Florence  Leslie,  the  year  previously,  but  so  altered  ! 

Altered  repeated  Lady  St.  Maur ; if  you  could  only 
find  her  for  me,  Alfred,  I should  be  very  grateful.’’ 

I wish  I could,  cousin  mine  ; but  I do  not  know  how.  I 
am  sure  she  needed  friends,  poor  girl ! and  Emily  might  have 
served  her,  if  she  had  not  thought  so  much  of  trouble.” 

I really  do  not  know  what  you  mean,  Alfred,”  replied  his 
his  sister,  languidly.  ''  Would  you  have  had  me  go  about  in- 
quiring who  among  my  friends  wanted  a governess,  for  one  of 
whom,  after  all,  I know  so  little 

‘‘  A governess  ?”  repeated  the  Countess  in  painful  surprise. 

Emily,  why  did  you  not  tell  me  this  ? I have  more  than 
once  asked  you  lately  if  you  knew  anything  of  her,  and  you 
have  always  answered  in  the  negative.” 

Because  I do  not  know  anything  of  her  now  ; it  is  ages 
ago  since  she  called  at  our  house  to  know  if  we  would  recom- 
mend her,  as  she  was  obliged  to  teach;  and  of  course  I thought 
that  you  must  know  that.” 

Know  it ! how  ?” 

Why,  did  she  not  correspond  with  you  ?” 

“ I told  you  I had  not  heard  from  her  for  some  time  ; she 
never  answered  my  letter  to  her  on  her  father  s death.” 

"‘Because  she  never  received  it,”  interposed  Alfred.  “Emily 
carelessly  mislaid  it  for  so  long,  that  when  it  was  found  she 
destroyed  it  as  useless.  I advised  her  to  tell  you,  which  of 
course  she  never  did.  And  would  you  believe  it  ? she  heard 
of  a situation  which  would  exactly  have  suited  poor  Florence, 
and  which  the  simple  exertion  of  taking  a ten  minutes’  drive 
would  have  secured  her,  and  yet  she  would  not  make  the 
exertion  to  obtain  it.” 

“Well,  what  can  it  signify ; she  has  a situation,  and  what 
more  could  I have  done  for  her  ? I told  her  I should  be  glad 
to  see  her  whenever  she  liked  to  come  ; and  as  she  never  has 
come,  I suppose  she  does  not  care  enough  about  us.” 

“ Nonsense,  Emily  ! very  likely  a girl  of  Miss  Leslie’s  sensi- 
tiveness should  come  forward  to  seek  our  acquaintance,  with 
such  an  indefinite  invitation  1”  angrily  responded  Melford. 

“You  have  a wonderful  knowledge  of  Miss  Leslie’s  character, 
Alfred,”  retorted  Emily,  maliciously.  “ Any  one  would  sup- 

L 


146 


woman’s  friendship. 


pose  her  pale  face  and  pensive  smile  had  made  an  extraordinary 
impression.” 

‘‘Emily,  you  are  a fool!”  he  began,  but,  softened  by  the 
Countess’s  beseeching  “ Alfred  1”  added,  more  quietly,  “ A face 
paled  by  evident  anxiety  and  suffering,  and  a smile  so  changed 
from  its  joyousness,  could  not  fail  of  making  an  impression.” 

“Is  she  indeed  so  altered?”  inquired  Lady  St.  Maur. 
“ But  do  you  know  why  she  was  obliged  to  go  out  ? I knew 
Mr.  Leslie  was  not  rich,  but  I fancied  his  children  provided  for.” 

“ So  perhaps  they  might  have  been,  but  I believe  some 
unfortunate  lawsuit,  which  Mr.  Leslie  did  not  live  to  complete, 
ruined  them ; but  I must  go.  I wish  you  could  convince 
Emily  that,  however  she  may  think  indolence  no  sin  in  itself, 
it  occasions  the  commission  of  too  many  to  be  disregarded ; 
and  there  is  the  first  moral  axiom  my  giddy  brain  ever  threw 
into  words.  Fearing  my  next  speech  should  counteract  it, 
good-bye.” 

“ He  is  exceedingly  annoying ; I wonder  what  has  come 
over  him?”  observed  his  sister,  on  his  departure.  “Anyone 
would  think  he  was  turning  saint.” 

“ Why  ? because  he  happened  to  say  the  truth  ? Alfred 
has  excellent  feelings  and  high  religious  principles,  though 
happily  for  himself,  he  can  conceal  them  from  those  who  would 
laugh  him  out  of  them.” 

“ Do  you  mean  to  say  that  he  is  right,  then  ? I often 
console  myself  with  the  idea,  that  by  not  going  out  I escape 
from  those  fashionable  follies  which  so  many  make  the  sum  of 
their  existence.” 

“You  have  tried  the  school  of  comparative  solitude  for  the 
last  two  years,  my  dear  Emily  ; but  tell  me,  are  you  the  same 
happy,  mirthful  being  you  were  when  I left  England  ?” 

For  a few  minutes  Emily  paused,  touched  by  Ida’s  affec- 
tionate tone,  and  then,  with  a sudden  burst  of  natural  feeling, 
she  exclaimed — 

“ Ida,  I will  answer  you,  for  I believe  you  are  my  truest 
friend;  and  perhaps  if  you  had  never  left  me,  I should  scarcely 
have  sunk  so  low  as  I am  now.  I am  miserable.  I feel 
chained  down  by  a dead  weight  which  I cannot  cast  aside.  I 
have  no  energy,  no  power,  and  must  remain  a useless  burden 
for  tlie  remainder  of  my  days.” 

“Do  not  say  so,  Emily ; but  tell  me,  what  first  induced  you 
to  fly  the  world  ?” 


woman’s  feiendship. 


147 


“ Oh  ! it  is  not  worth  yonr  hearing.  Do  you  remember  my 
telling  you  I meant  to  throw  off  all  restraint,  from  having  had 
thirteen  years  of  school  discipline,  and  seek  only  my  own 
pleasure  ? I see  you  do,  and  also  your  own  prophetic  answer 
— for  literally  I am  one  of  the  most  disagreeable  selfish  beings 
in  the  universe.  Well,  I adhered  to  my  words — I read  nothing 
but  the  lightest  and  most  frivolous  novels  ; did  nothing  but 
make  and  receive  visits.  I thought  the  weeks  horribly  long, 
and  insufferably  dull,  if  one  night  passed  without  a party.  I 
danced,  flirted,  waltzed,  with  little  cessation  through  the 
season.  I had  many  disagreeable  entanglements,  but  still 
there  was  excitement  in  getting  out  of  them;  and  then  I 
fancied  that  I loved  three  or  four  times — and  one,  the  last, 
heigho  ! if  he  had  but  been  rich,  I might  have  been  a different 
being ; for  the  poor  fellow  did  love  me,  and  I did  not  treat 
him  well — but  that  has  little  to  do  with  my  story.  I mingled 
only  with  the  heartless,  the  cold,  the  worldly;  all  that  appeared 
good  I believed  to  be  hypocrisy.  I do  not  know  now  what 
stopped  me  in  this  headlong  career ; perhaps  it  was  hearing 
that  the — the — young  man,  to  whom  I referred  just  now,  and 
whom  my  coquetry  and  ill-usage  had  compelled  to  exchange 
his  regiment  for  one  going  to  India,  was  drowned  on  his 
passage  ; but  I awoke  as  from  a hideous  dream — all  my  past 
excitement  looked  like  grinning  shadows.  I seemed  to  be 
standing  on  a precipice,  overhanging  a gulf  of  perdition,  into 
which  but  one  step  more  would  plunge  me  everlastingly,  and  I 
shuddered  and  turned  back  ! but  with  a shock  so  violent  that 
I inwardly  vowed  never  to  enter  such  scenes  again.  Of  course, 
the  fever  of  excitement  ended  in  bodily  exhaustion,  and  its 
horrible  void ; for  I was  never  very  strong,  and  then  I imagined 
myself  ill,  and  it  was  a good  excuse  for  changing  my  mode  of 
life,  and  so  I encouraged  it  till  I really  had  no  power  to  do 
otherwise.  And  now  you  know  my  whole  story,  and  you  must 
see  that  I have  more  excuse  for  indolence  and  solitude  than 
most  people  have.” 

''  You  have  indeed  told  me  a sad  story,  Emily  ; but  I 
cannot  come  to  the  same  conclusion.  Why,  to  escape  from 
faults  of  commission,  do  you  run  headlong  into  those  of 
omission  and  neglect  ? Why  not  rather  seek  better  and 
nobler  sources  of  enjoyment  and  exertion  ?” 

Where  can  I find  them  ? I do  think  unmarried  women 

L 2 


148 


woman’s  friendship. 


tlie  most  useless,  miserable  beings  in  existence  ! they  have  no 
call  for  exertion,  nothing  to  interest  them.” 

‘^Have  you  lost  all  the  power  of  affection,  Emily?” 

‘‘My  dear  Ida,  surely  now  you  do  not  speak  with  your 
usual  wisdom.  What  can  mamma  or  papa  want  with  me  ? 
what  can  I do  for  them,  or  even  feel  for  them,  to  fill  up  this 
craving  void  ? And  as  for  Georgiana,  really  she  would  laugh 
at  the  idea  of  my  requiring  her  affection,  or  feeling  any  for 
her.  Friend  ! there  is  no  such  thing  in  the  London  world.” 

“For  heaven’s  sake,  my  dear  Emily,  do  not  make  such 
sweeping  assertions ! If  you  are  bereft  of  common  feeling,  of 
course  my  arguments  can  have  little  weight ; but  you  might 
have  made  a friend — Florence.” 

“ Do  not  speak  of  Florence,  Ida  : I would  not  have  Alfred 
know  it,  because  he  torments  me  quite  enough ; but  I will  tell 
you  that  her  note,  though  it  simply  thanked  my  intended 
kindness,  and  said  she  no  longer  needed  it,  caused  such  painful 
feelings  that  I destroyed  it,  for  I could  not  bear  to  think  of  or 
look  at  it.” 

“And  you  have  no  remembrance  at  all  of  her  address  ?” 

“ No  ; but  I think  I kept  the  name  and  address  of  the  lady 
with  whom  she  said  she  was  going  to  reside ; for  while  tha 
stinging  self-reproach  lasted,  I thought  if  I heard  of  anything 
more  advantageous,  I would  write  to  her ; but  that  idea,  of 
course,  only  lasted  till  conscience  was  silenced,  two  days 
afterwards.  How  you,  with  all  your  new  interests  and 
affections,  can  have  still  time  and  inclination  to  bestow  a 
thought  on  one  whom  you  knew  so  short  a time,  I cannot 
understand ; you  certainly  are  an  extraordinary  person.  I 
wish  I were  more  like  you,  but  I was  not  so  constituted ; I 
cannot  help  my  nature.” 

How  many  there  are  in  the  world  like  Emily  Melford,  who 
never  fail  to  drown  the  still  small  voice  of  conscience  by  the 
consoling  reflection,  it  is  not  themselves  but  their  constitution 
at  fault  ; that  they  cannot  help  themselves,  and  therefore 
make  no  exertion  so  to  do. 

For  a wonder,  Emily  kept  her  promise.  The  following 
morning  came  Mrs.  EusselFs  direction,  and  the  Countess 
wrote  immediately,  requesting  to  know  if  a young  lady  of  the 
name  of  Florence  Leslie  still  resided  with  Mrs.  Russell,  as 
governess  ; or,  if  she  had  left,  she  would  feel  really  obliged  for 
any  information  concerning  her  which  Mrs.  RusseU  could 
bestow* 


CHAPTER  XXVIL 


TO  PROVE  INNOCENCE  AND  RELIEVE  SUFPERING  IS  NOT  A 
NEEDLESS  EXERTION. 


Several  days  elapsed  before  Lady  St.  Maur  received  any 
answer  to  her  note,  and  when  the  reply  did  come,  it  contained 
little  satisfactory. 

“ Mrs.  RusselFs  compliments  to  the  Countess  St.  Maur,  and 
begs  to  inform  her  ladyship  that  a young  person  of  the  name 
of  Florence  Leslie  did  reside  with  her  a few  months,  as 
governess  ; but  having  discovered  she  had  been  grossly  de- 
oeived,  and  that  the  person  in  question  was  very  unfit  for 
such  a responsible  situation,  Mrs.  Russell  was  compelled  to 
dismiss  her  directly,  and  knows  nothing  more  concerning  her 
or  her  family.” 

This  was  such  strong  confirmation  of  previous  reports,  that 
Lady  St.  Maur’s  secret  hopes  fell ; yet  still  she  was  not 
satisfied,  and  while  sitting  in  painful  perplexity,  Lady  Mary 
Villiers  and  Alfred  Melford  chanced  to  call  in.  What  is  the 
matter,  Ida  ? Anxiety  in  the  upper  house,  yclept  the  nursery? 
Any  of  the  ladies  or  lords  there  not  as  well  as  their  mamma 
thinks  they  ought  to  be  ?”  was  the  former’s  lively  greeting, 
which  the  Countess  answered  by  putting  Mrs.  Russell’s  note 
into  her  hand,  adding,  with  a smile,  am  not  at  all  the 
fanciful  mamma  you  would  make  me,  Mary  ; my  children  are 
all  well,  and  I value  the  blessing  rather  too  thankfully  to  alloy 
it  by  imagining  them  otherwise  without  just  cause.” 

‘"And  yet  you  worry  yourself  about  such  a trifle  as  this. 
My  dear  Ida,  I shall  hate  the  very  name  of  Florence  Leslie,  if 


150 


woman’s  friendship. 


it  is  to  annoy  you  in  this  manner ! What  can  she  be  to  you^ 
that  you  cannot  dismiss  her  from  your  mind,  believing  her,  as 
everybody  else  does,  no  longer  worthy  of  your  regard  ? This 
note  does  but  confirm  what  you  already  know. 

‘^What  can  you  possibly  mean?”  exclaimed  Melford,  in- 
dignantly. Florence  Leslie  unworthy  of  Ida’s  regard  ? She 
is  no  more  unworthy  of  it  than  I am,  if  as  much.  What  can 
you  mean  ?” 

They  told  him,  but  he  was  only  the  more  indignant.  It 
is  all  some  specious  lie — I beg  your  pardon,  Ida,  for  the  word ; 
I have  seen  Miss  Leslie  later  than  either  of  you,  and  I would 
stake  my  reputation  that  no  more  sin  or  shame  lies  on  that 
heart  than  on  either  of  those  I have  the  honour  of  now 
addressing.  Go  yourself  to  this  Mrs.  Eussell,  Ida;  I dare  say' 
she  has  invented  this  tale  to  excuse  her  dismissal  of  poor 
Florence,  because  she  was  too  good  for  her.” 

Strange  then  it  should  so  exactly  agree  with  the  previous 
rumours,”  replied  Lady  Mary,  who,  without  any  malice  or 
envy,  had  yet  some  secret  jealousy  that  such  an  unknown 
person  should  have  any  part  of  her  friend’s  interest  or  regard. 

What  can  Ida’s  taking  so  much  trouble  do,  except  to  annoy 
her  yet  more  ! ” 

‘‘Lady  Mary,  you  are  too  prejudiced  for  me.  My  cousin 
Ida  will  not  give  up  this  poor  girl  without  sufficient  cause.  Go 
to  Mrs.  Russell,  Ida,  make  her  tell  you  more  particulars ; or  if 
you  do  not  like  to  do  so,  authorize  me,  and  I will  get  out  the 
truth,  you  may  depend.” 

“ Thank  you,  my  good  cousin,  but  I will  go  myself.  My 
dear  Mary,  do  not  look  so  much  annoyed ; you  know  I told 
you,  years  ago,  if  I found  Florence  worthy  of  my  regard  she 
should  have  it  still.” 

“ But  she  is  not  worthy,  and  that  is  what  annoys  me.” 

“ How  do  I know  that  she  is  not  ? Rumour  never  weighs 
a breath  with  me  ; I must  have  positive  proofs  of  guilt  before 
I will  believe  it,  and  I care  not  what  trouble  it  costs  to  dis- 
cover the  truth.  Still  not  satisfied,  Mary  ? You  cannot  be 
so  altered  as  to  envy  that  poor  friendless  girl  the  trifling 
happiness  of  my  unchanged  regard.” 

“ I know  I am  very  selfish,  dearest  Ida,  but  you  must  forgive 
me  ; I value  your  love  so  highly  than  I cannot  bear  to  see  it 
unworthily  bestowed,”  said  Lady  Mary,  frankly  kissing  the 


•woman's  friendship.  151 

Countess  affectionately  as  she  spoke ; and,  after  hearing  what 
we  have  heard,  I think — " 

‘‘You  think  I might  just  as  well  be  satisfied  with  the 
friends  I have,  and  not  seek  others ; is  it  not  so  ? And  so 
leave  poor  Florence  to  her  fate,  guilty  or  not  guilty.  Such  is 
not  quite  my  idea  of  woman's  friendship.  No,  Mary,  to  prove' 
innocence  and  relieve  sufiering  can  never  be  the  needless 
exertion  you  wish  me  to  suppose  it." 

Still  Lady  Mary  was  not  quite  convinced.  In  fact,  Alfred 
Melford  was  the  only  one  who  gave  the  Countess  encourage- 
ment ill  her  benevolence.  The  Earl  himself,  and  Lady  Helen, 
though  generally  the  last  to  entertain  anything  approaching 
to  prejudice,  still  imagined  the  fancy  of  two  persons  having 
names  so  exactly  similar,  and  moving  in  the  same  scenes,  much 
too  romantic  to  be  entertained  a moment.  They  did  not 
indeed  say  much ; but  what  is  there  more  painfully  chilling 
than  to  read  doubt  and  want  of  sympathy  in  those  whose 
approval  we  long  for,  as  robing  our  cherished  plans  with  an 
importance  which  of  themselves  they  never  can  obtain.  It  so 
happened,  just  about  this  time  that,  in  inquiring  amongst 
various  jewellers  for  a rare  stone,  to  replace  one  which  had 
fallen  from  Lady  St.  Maur's  bracelet,  Alice  had  perceived,  and 
instantly  recognised,  the  identical  cross  and  chain  which  her 
lady  had  presented  to  Miss  Leslie.  Knowing  how  anxious  the 
Countess  was  to  discover  some  trace  of  Florence,  she  asked 
many  questions  as  to  how  and  where  that  trinket  had  been 
obtained.  Mr.  Danvers  could  tell  her  little,  except  that  he 
had  purchased  it  some  months  ago  of  a young  lady  who  was 
in  mourning,  and  wore  so  thick  a veil  that  he  could  not  even 
discern  her  countenance  ; but  by  the  tone  of  her  voice,  he  was 
sure  she  was  a lady.  Lady  St.  Maur,  without  hesitation,  re- 
purchased it,  satisfying  herself  it  was  the  identical  jewel  by 
touching  the  spring  (of  whose  existence  the  jeweller  was 
unconscious),  and  the  letters  1.  V.  to  F.  L.  were  still  distinctly 
visible,  but  the  braid  of  hair  was  gone. 

Lady  Mary  was  indignant  that  Florence  could  ever  have 
sold  the  trinket ; she  could  not  imagine  any  distress  so  great 
as  to  demand  such  a sacrifice,  and  if  she  really  were  so 
distressed,  why  did  she  not  do  as  Ida  had  desired  her,  write 
and  ask  her  promised  influence ; that  she  did  not  w^as  a still 
stronger  proof  of  her  unworthiness ; besides,  how  could  they 
be  sure  that  it  was  not  individual  imprudence  instead  of 


152 


woman’s  friendship. 


family  distress  which  had  compelled  its  sale  ? The  Earl  and 
Lady  Helen  said  nothing ; but  Ida  felt  that  their  opinions 
sided  with  Lady  Mary’s,  and  though  her  own  heart  still 
defended  Florence,  she  half  shrunk  from  pursuing  her 
inquiries,  lest  the  truth  should  indeed  he  such  as  to  demand 
the  relinquishing  of  all  her  generous  plans  and  kindly  feelings. 
Alfred  Melford,  however,  persisted  in  his  assertion  of  Florence’s 
entire  innocence,  and  the  visit  to  Mrs.  Russell,  which  he  so 
urgently  advised,  was,  in  consequence,  no  longer  deferred. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 


ALFRED  MELFORD  EXERTS  HIMSELF. — LADY  MARY  ALTERS  HER 
OPmOK. — THE  UNKHOWH  MUSICIAN. 


Well,  what  news,  fair  cousin  ? ” exclaimed  young  Melford, 
galloping  up  to  Lady  St.  Maur  s carriage,  half-way  between 
Norwood  and  London,  and  checking  his  horse  to  a speaking 
pace. 

‘‘  Bad ! ’’  replied  Lady  Mary,  mischievously.  Ida  has  only 
had  reports  confirmed.’’ 

Of  course,  that  I expected  from  Mrs.  Russell’s  note  ; but 
are  you  satisfied,  Ida  ? ” 

‘‘Not  at  all,  I am  as  far  from  the  truth  as  ever ; except 
that  Florence  positively  denied  the  charge.” 

“ Hurrah  then,  victory  ! ” exclaimed  Melford,  joyously. 

And  Mrs.  Russell — ” 

“ Is  much  too  prejudiced  a person  for  assertions  to  have  any 
weight,  even  I acknowledge,”  said  Lady  Mary,  frankly. 

“ But  what  did  she  say  ? ” 

“ Only  what  we  already  know,”  replied  the  Countess  ; “ she 
went  on  a visit  to  her  friends  in  Hampshire,  was  of  course 
questioned  as  to  her  new  governess,  heard  all  the  reports,  and 
without  deigning  a single  question  as  to  whether  or  not 
Florence  was  the  person  supposed,  dismissed  her  on  the 
instant.  Of  course,  her  story  to  me  was  very  precise,  and  very 
plausible  : but  I give  you  its  interpretation.” 

“ Have  you  any  clue  to  Miss  Leslie’s  present  residence  ? ” 

“ I fear  none.  Mrs.  Ptussell  thought  she  lived  at  Peckham 
or  Camberwell,  but  could  not  pretend  to  say ; the  less  she  had 
to  do  with  such  a person,  she  thought,  the  better.” 

“ I will  find  her,  if  I call  at  every  house  in  both  these 
places,”  muttered  Melford. 


154 


woman’s  friendship. 


prove  her  innocence,  or  deny  my  penetration  a 
triumph,  Mr.  Melford  ? ” demanded  Lady  Mary,  archly. 

f<To  prove,”  he  replied,  so  gravely,  almost  reproachfully, 
that  Lady  Mary  felt  unconsciously  rebuked,  how  much  more 
kindly  and  justly  woman  is  judged  by  man  than  by  her  o\vn 
sex.” 

‘^You  forget  Ida  and  the  Earl,”  replied  Lady  Mary, 
rallying. 

Ida  is  incapable  of  so  petty  a feeling  as  prejudice.  Even 
if  she  had  not  known  Florence,  her  judgment  would  be  the 
same  as  it  is  now.  The  Earl  never  knew  Miss  Leslie,  and  is 
annoyed  that  the  very  shadow  of  a doubt  should  rest  on  any 
one  in  whom  his  wife  is  interested.” 

You  are  a barrister,  Mr.  Melford,  and  will  of  course  make 
your  cause  good,”  answered  Lady  Mary,  jestingly ; but  if  the 
truth  must  be  written,  she  was  not  quite  pleased,  having  just 
that  sort  of  lurking  inclination  towards  young  Melford  which 
made  her  feel  annoyed  that  any  other  w^oman  should  so  occupy 
his  thoughts. 

Melford  kept  his  word.  Every  hour  he  could  snatch  from 
his  studies  he  devoted  to  his  cousin’s  service,  and  at  length 
succeeded  in  discovering  the  lodging  at  Camberwell  which  Mrs. 
Leslie  had  occupied,  but  to  his  great  disappointment,  it  was 
then  untenanted.  From  the  landlady,  however,  he  heard 
much  to  deepen  his  interest  in  the  search,  Mrs.  Everett  had 
become  so  attached  to  her  lodgers  that,  with  the  garrulity 
of  her  class,  she  poured  forth  all  they  had  encountered  from 
sickness  and  privation ; and  how  the  young  ladies  had  w’orked 
to  pay  her  rent,  and  prevent  bills  running  on ; and  how  the 
young  gentleman  had  painted  the  beatifullest  pictures,  and 
wrote  such  fine  poetry,  that  she  used  to  listen  and  listen,  and 
the  words  were  so  grand-like,  yet  so  simple,  they  made  her  feel 
as  her  Bible  did.  Poor  young  gentleman,”  she  continued, 
^‘he  was  almost  an  angel  before  he  died;  and  I am  sure  he  i& 
one  now!”  and  she  put  up  her  apron  to  her  eyes. 

Died  ! ” repeated  young  Melford.  ‘‘  Has  there  been  a 
death  lately  in  the  family,  then  ? ” 

Bless  your  kind  heart,  yes,  sir;  and  that  was  for  why  the 
poor  lady,  his  mother,  and  her  daughters  left  me.  Natural 
like,  they  could  not  bear  to  remain  where  everything  reminded 
them  of  him ; for  I never  saw  such  love  as  existed  between 
^em  all.  I am  sure  the  poor  young  man  killed  himself.  Why, 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


155 


bless  you,  he  used  at  one  time  to  sit  up  half  the  night  writing 
those  fine  poems ; and  then  he  got  ill.  Miss  Leslie  was  out  as 
a governess  then,  and  never  knew  how  ill  her  poor  brother  was 
till  he  was  a little  better,  and  she  came  home  suddenly,  and 
when  she  got  a little  over  her  own  misfortunes — for  between 
you  and  me,  sir,  I think  that  good-for-nothing  hard  woman 
with  whom  she  had  lived  had  said  something  very  shameful 
about  her  character,  almost  taking  it  from  her,  when,  bless 
you,  she  was  innocent  as  a lamb,  so  good  and  religious,  and 
devoted  to  her  family.  She  could  no  more  have  acted  as  they 
said  she  did  than  I could,  and  it  was  so  cruel  to  say  she  was 
a bad  girl,  and  so  deprive  her  of  bread.’’ 

I knew  it  was  a lie  ! ” Melford  burst  forth  at  this  point,  to 
Mrs.  Everett’s  great  surprise. 

La,  sir ! your  startle  me.  Howsomdever,  perhaps  it  was 
all  the  happier  for  her  to  be  at  home,  when  her  poor  brother 
was  so  weak  and  ill ; but  she  used  to  go  and  teach  every  day 
nearly  two  miles  off,  trudged  through  hail  and  rain,  cold  and 
snow,  when  she  would  shake  again  from  weakness,  and  perhaps 
sitting  up  the  greater  part  of  the  night ; and  when  I begged 
her  not,  she  used  to  say,  with  such  a sweet  smile,  it  made  my 
heart  ache,  ‘ Who  is  to  pay  your  rent,  dear  Mrs.  Everett,  if  I 
do  not  work  ; and  how  can  we  be  unjust  to  you,  when  you  are 
so  kind  ? ’ ” 

‘‘  But  she  had  a sister,  had  she  not  ? ” here  interposed 
Melford  ; Did  she  do  nothing  ? ” 

Nothing ! bless  you,  sir,  she  worked  at  her  needle  as  hard 
as  any  of  them ; but  she  was  too  young,  too  pretty  to  go  out 
as  Miss  Florence  did ; she  wanted  to  do  it,  and  cried  often 
enough  that  she  was  not  like  other  girls.  Ah,  sir,  Mr.  Leslie 
was  quite  right ; though  she  was  too  pretty  to  go  out  alone,  or 
be  dependent,  you  never  saw  such  a lovely  face,  or  heard  such 
a voice — it  was  like  an  angel’s.  I have  come  and  listened  to 
her  singing  on  a Sunday  night,  and  felt  myself  in  heaven  ; for 
then  she  only  sung  words  from  the  Bible,  but  such  beautiful 
solemn  tunes  ; and  to  have  seen  how  her  mother  and  sister 
and  Mr.  Walter  listened  and  looked  at  her,  it  would  have  been 
a good  lesson  to  some  families  who  don’t  know  what  family 
love  is.  Ah,  sir,  it  is  very,  very  hard  when  gentlefolks  like 
them  become  so  poor,  and  obliged  to  work  like  slaves,  much 
harder  than  for  folks  in  my  station.  We  are  born  to  it,  and 
can  work  without  feeling  it.  Well,  sir,  the  poor  young  gentle- 


156 


woman’s  friendship. 


man  wrote  and  wrote,  and  painted  even  when  he  could  not 
walk,  and  at  last  finished  a book,  which,  natural  like,  he 
wanted  printed.  Oh,  sir,  how  his  poor  sister  worked  to  gratify 
him ; up  earlier  than  ever,  often  out  almost  before  the  light  and 
not  home  till  so  late,  and  at  last  she  got  a gentleman  to  a^ee, 
and  pay  nearly  all  expenses;  and  what  do  you  think  she  did  to 
make  up  the  money  ? why,  without  telling  him,  sold  all  her 
jewels.  She  had  not  many  ; but  one  she  loved  so  much,  a 
beautiful  cross  and  chain  some  dear  friend  had  given  her,  and 
oh  ! how  cut  up  she  was  in  parting  with  it ; but  she  did  not 
hesitate,  for  she  never  thought  of  herself  or  her  own  sufferings, 
and  so  it  was  sold ; and  after  all,  her  poor  brother  is  gone  to  a 
better  world,  and  what  will  the  book  be  to  him  ? ” 

And  how  long  ago  was  this  ? ” inquired  Melford. 

Some  time  last  May,  sir  ; but  poor  Miss  Leslie  knew  he 
must  die  weeks  before.  Oh  ! what  an  hour  that  was  ! but  she 
bore  up  for  her  brother’s  sake,  and  her  poor  mother’s,  and  only 
sank  when  he  did  not  need  her  any  more.  I thought  she  w^ould 
have  never  recovered  from  the  swoon  she  had  when  she  came 
home,  and  found  he  was  dead — had  died,  sir,  in  the  very  act 
of  finishing  a beautiful  picture.  She  was  very,  very  ill,  and  I 
think  that  kept  poor  Mrs.  Leslie  up;  but  I fear  me  she  will  not 
last  long,  and  those  two  poor  young  ladies  will  be  left  without 
a single  friend.”  And  the  good  woman  actually  sobbed. 

Melford  respected  the  feeling,  and  so  kindly  assured  her  that 
they  had  friends,  that  he  had,  in  fact,  come  on  the  part  of  one 
most  anxious  to  discover  them,  that  she  soon  recovered 
herself. 

''  Bless  you,  sir,  for  such  good  news  ! Well,  as  soon  as  poor 
Miss  Leslie  could  be  moved,  they  went  to  an  old  relation  some- 
where in  Berkshire  ; and  Miss  Minie,  sweet  soul,  wrote  to  me 
often  to  tell  me  how  her  poor  sister  w^as,  and  grieving  that  they 
must  change  their  lodgings.  I havn’t  heard  where  they  are 
now  ; for  Miss  Minie  wrote  the  last  time  all  in  the  bustle  of 
moving  and  settling,  and  forgot  to  put  the  direction,  but  said 
she  would  come  and  see  me  very  soon,  and  bless  your  heart, 
sir,  she  will  be  sure  to  come,  for  she  is  a true  lady,  as  they  all 
are  ; not  a bit  of  pride  about  ’em.” 

Alfred  Melford  was  an  eloquent  narrator;  and  so  simply  and 
touchingly  did  he  repeat  Mrs.  Everett’s  communications,  that 
not  one  of  his  auditors,  even  the  prejudiced  Lady  Mary, 
or  the  stagnant  Emily,  could  listen  to  him  unmoved. 


WOMAN  S ERIENDSHIP. 


157 


Ida,  dearest  Ida  ! I have  indeed  been  too  prejudiced  ; but 
I know  if  you  find  this  poor  girl  you  will  forgive  me,  and  let 
me  aid  your  labour  of  kindness, ' exclaimed  Lady  Mary, 
warmly,  as  she  knelt  down  playfully  on  he  cushion  at  the 
Countess s feet.  ‘"What  are  you  thinking  about  so  sorrowfully? 
We  shall  find  her,  depend  upon  it 

I was  thinking,  Mary,  why  she  should  never  have  written 
to  me  in  her  brother’s  behalf ; her  own  sufferings  I know  she 
would  never  have  revealed.  But  why  she  should  never  have 
appealed  to  my  promised  influence,  for  him  whom  it  might 
have  so  beneficially  served,  perplexes  me  more  than  ever.” 

“ Her  letter  may  have  been  lost,  miscarried,  or  even 
changed.” 

Changed  ! ” repeated  Lady  St.  Maur,  eagerly  interrupting 
him.  ‘‘  Alfred,  if  such  a thing  were  really  possible,  you  have 
given  me  the  clue  to  all  the  apparent  mystery  of  Florence’s 
conduct.  You  not  only  aid  me  by  active  service,  but  by  your 
ready  judgment  ; how  can  I thank  you  ? ” 

"'Do  not  thank  me  at  all,  cousin  mine,”  he  answered,  laugh- 
ing; "thank  your  own  persevering  benevolence,  without  which, 
this  poor  girl  must  ever  have  remained  a victim  to  these  lying 
reports.  Frank  Howard,  most  honourable  member ! I hope 
your  exertions  last  night  have  not  robbed  you  of  eloquence 
this  morning,”  he  continued,  gaily,  as  young  Howard  and  Sir 
Charles  Brashleigh  at  that  moment  entered.  "‘What  senatorial 
mission  can  bring  you  here  ? ” 

""  Surely  I may  pay  my  homage  to  the  Countess  St.  Maur  as 
well  as  yourself  ? ” replied  the  young  man,  in  the  same  tone. 

""I  did  not  know  that  you  had  time  to  spare  for  such 
frivolity,  my  eloquent  friend ; and  now  I believe,  in  spite  of 
that  chivalric  speech,  your  business  is  more  with  the  Earl  than 
with  Ida.” 

""You  are  quite  mistaken,  for  I parted  with  the  Earl  not 
half  an  hour  ago,  at  Morton’s,  the  publisher,  where  you  should 
have  been  with  me,  Melford.” 

""To  look  over  some  musty  pamphlets  of  parliamentary 
debates,  of  the  time  of  Caractacus  ? Not  I ; I have  enough 
to  do  with  Blackstone.” 

""No,”  replied  Howard,  laughing.  ""I  was  waiting  in  Morton’s 
private  parlour  till  he  should  be  disengaged,  when  I heard  some 
one  singing  in  the  adjoining  room  ; I never  heard  anything  so 
beautiful  in  my  life ! It  was  that  sublime  air  of  Handel’s — 


158 


•woman’s  fbiendship. 


* Comfort  ye,  my  people,’  poured  forth  with  such  liquid  sweet- 
ness, such  thrilling  power,  it  held  me  entranced  as  if  my  very 
breath  were  chained.  It  ceased  at  length,  to  my  great  grief, 
and  was  followed  by  one  of  Morton’s  daughters  taking  her 
lesson,  filling  me  with  astonishment  who  this  gifted  instructress 
could  be.  Morton  came  at  length,  full  of  apology  at  the  delay; 
and  looking  more  mysteriously  annoyed  when  I told  him  if 
that  delicious  music  had  continued,  I would  willingly  have 
waited  all  day.  At  last  he  owned  the  cause  of  his  vexation. 
It  appears  that  the  singer  is  a very  young  and  most  beautiful 
girl,  compelled  thus  to  seek  her  livelihood ; that  her  mother 
and  sister  have  done  all  they  could  to  prevent  her  going  out, 
but  the  necessity  becoming  imperative,  Morton  obtained  her 
pupils  in  a few  quiet  families,  on  whom  he  thought  he  could 
depend.  She  has,  however,  already  excited  notice  and  adula- 
tion ; some  frivolous  idlers  watch  her  in  and  out,  aiid  beset 
her  with  heartless  and  cruel  attentions.  Morton  has  stopped 
this  as  much  as  he  can;  but  he  cannot  always  be  near  her,  and 
she  has  unhappily  neither  father  nor  brother  to  protect  her.” 

Poor  girl!  and  who  is  she?”  inquired  Lady  St.  Maur,  who 
had  been  conversing  with  Sir  Charles,  but  attracted  by 
Howard’s  tale,  had  paused  to  listen. 

I cannot  tell  you  1 for  Morton  seemed  so  annoyed  that  I 
promised  him  I would  not  ask  anything  more  about  her,  or 
even  mention  what  had  I heard,  except  to  those  likely  to  assist 
him  in  his  benevolence  rather  than  to  annoy  its  object.” 

And  you  refused  to  see  her,  satisfied  only  to  hear  ? Frank, 
you  have  more  forbearance  than  I have,”  exclaimed  Melford ; 
‘^and  not  even  to  ask  her  name  1 Have  you  heard  this  paragon. 
Sir  Charles  ? Morton  is  patronised  by  you  ; perhaps  you  can 
tell  us  who  she  is  ? ” 

I have  a very  bad  memory  for  names,  Melford,  as  you 
know,”  replied  the  old  physician,  musingly ; but  I believe 
this  beautiful  girl  is  the  sister  of  a young  poet  in  whom 
Morton  has  been  deeply  interested  lately.  Poor  fellow  ! I was 
quite  shocked  to  hear  that  he  died  two  or  three  months  ago. 
I knew  he  could  not  live,  for  his  heart  was  broken  ; but  I did 
not  think  it  would  have  been  so  soon.” 

This  is  worse  and  worse.  Sir  Charles,”  said  Lady  Mary  ; 
here  you  are  giving  a most  interesting  addition  to  Frank’s 
adventure,  and  mystifying  us  as  much  as  he  did.  Did  you 
attend  him  ? ” 


•woman’s  friendship. 


159 


''  I saw  liim  but  once,  for  I could  do  him  no  good.  Poverty 
md  compelled  a drudgery  wholly  at  variance  with  either 
health  or  inclination ; and  his  rich  gifts  lay  upon  his  mind 
and  crushed  him.  In  all  my  practice  I never  saw  such  devoted 
attachment  to  each  other  in  the  members  of  one  family 
as  in — ” 

Was  his  name  Leslie  ? ” asked  Melford,  bounding  over 
chairs  and  tables  till  he  reached  Sir  Charles’s  side,  and  speaking 
in  a tone  that  completely  electrified  his  hearers.  It  must 
be,  I am  sure  it  is — a poet  1 — a thrilling  voice  ! — why  here  is 
the  very  commentary  of  Mrs.  Everett’s  tale.  How  blind  and 
deaf  I was  not  to  trace  it  before  1 Sir  Charles,  in  pity  speak ! 
was  not  the  name  Leslie  ? and  did  you  not  go  to  Camberwell  ? 
and  was  not  one  of  the  poet’s  sisters  named  Florence  ? and — ” 

‘‘My  good  fellow,  if  you  take  away  my  breath  in  this 
manner,  you  will  get  no  answer  at  all.  I recollect  now,  it  was 
Leslie,  and  there  was  a Florence  too.  Why,  Lady  St.  Maur, 
you  look  as  relieved  as  this  mad  boy ; do  explain.” 

But  till  Melford’s  nois}^  joy  was  over,  all  attempt  at  ex- 
planation was  vain.  And  before  the  conversation  could  be 
connectedly  resumed.  Lord  St.  Maur  entered  the  room. 

“ I have  news  for  you,  Ida,”  he  said.  “ Morton  has  been 
telling  me  such  a tale  of  affliction,  and  genius,  and  worth,  that 
I only  wish  we  had  known  it  before.  You  are  right,  as  in 
matters  of  feeling  you  always  are,  and  we  have  all  been  harsh 
and  wrong ; but  you  know  it  already,”  he  added,  half-disap- 
pointed,  as  he  met  her  animated  glance. 

“Not  all,  dearest  Edmund;  only  tell  me,  will  you  blame  my 
anxiety  now  ? ” 

“No,  my  own  kind  love  ; but  let  me  eat  my  luncheon,  for, 
unromantic  as  it  is,  I am  very  hungry  ; and  we  will  compare 
notes  meanwhile.  On  one  point  you  may  be  quite  easy,  I have 
Mrs.  Leslie’s  address,  and  you  can  go  to  her  or  send  for 
Florence  whenever  you  please.” 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


FOUND  AT  LAST. 


Mrs.  Everett’s  garrulous  detail  was  more  exact  than  usual. 
Florence  had  been  extremely  ill : the  succession  of  fainting  fits> 
which  had  followed  the  awful  discovery  that  the  loved  one  had 
departed,  only  too  plainly  demonstrated  the  exhaustion  to 
which  she  was  reduced ; and  the  stupifying  lethargy  of  a. 
nervous  fever  which  ensued  spared  her  the  agony  attending 
her  brother’s  funeral.  Nor  was  it  till  Mr.  Morton’s  kindness 
had  installed  them  in  small  but  comfortable  apartments  at 
Brompton,  that  she  could  in  any  way  rouse  herself  from  the 
stupor  of  still  overpowering  languor,  and  endeavour  to  resume 
her  duties.  Her  former  pupils  she  had  of  course  been  com- 
pelled to  give  up,  both  from  her  illness  and  change  of  residence ; 
and  now,  though  scarcely  strong  enough  to  walk  the  length  of 
the  street,  she  was  tormented  with  the  anxious  desire  to  regain 
employment.  In  vain  Mrs.  Leslie  sought  to  convince  her  of 
the  impossibility,  and  to  persuade  her  it  was  not  needed. 
Florence  knew  that  the  continued  illness  of  her  beloved 
Walter  had  fearfully  drained  their  little  finances.  She  looked 
on  her  mother,  and  shuddered  at  the  very  thought  of  want  for 
her.  But  how  could  she  proceed  ? And  in  this  emergency  she 
applied  to  their  friend,  Mr.  Morton.  He  heard  her  with  a 
paternal  smile,  but  told  her  she  was  too  late  ; Minie  had  been 
before  her,  and  he  had  procured  her  pupils  for  singing  in  five 
highly  respectable  families,  in  addition  to  his  own.  And 
Minie,  clasping  her  arms  about  her  sister’s  neck,  implored  her 
in  bitter  tears  not  to  disapprove  of  the  plan  ; she  was  in 
perfect  health,  and  had  never  known  what  illness  was. 

Florence  looked  on  that  sweet  face,  and  the  thought  ()f 
Walter,  of  his  love,  his  care,  his  terrors  for  that  lovely  girl, 
mingled  with  the  agonized  conviction  that  his  protection  could 


woman’s  friendship. 


IGl 


never  more  surround  her,  that  temptation  and  trial  must 
henceforth  be  endured  alone  ; and  she  could  only  fold  Minie 
closer  and  closer  to  her  bosom,  and  weep ; but  she  did  not 
deny  her  wishes.  Perhaps  she  felt  her  own  utter  incapacity 
for  exertion;  but  her  consent  was  only  given  for  a limited 
time,  till  she  was  strong  enough  again  to  work.  Mr.  Morton 
promised  that  Minie  should  receive  all  the  care  he  could 
bestow  ; but  even  in  the  few  weeks  of  her  new  occupation  the 
poor  girl  learned  to  know  the  truth  of  Walter’s  fears. 

Nor  did  the  task  Florence  imposed  on  herself,  of  arranging 
Walter’s  papers,  tend  to  aid  the  recovery  of  mental  calm. 
Morton,  indeed,  offered  to  do  this  for  her ; but  mournfully 
she  refused : painful  as  it  would  be,  there  was  yet  a sort  of 
melancholy  consolation  in  guarding  from  a stranger’s  eye 
repositories  of  thought  which  Walter  had  perhaps  conveyed 
to  no  human  ear;  and  ere  her  task  was  completed  she 
rejoiced  in  her  decision.  Amongst  fugitive  papers,  containing 
alike  original  and  selected  poetry,  manuscript  volumes  of 
prose  sketches,  and  often  the  private  journal  of  his  thoughts 
and  feelings,  over  which  his  sister’s  tears  fell  thick  and 
unrestrainedly,  there  was  one  secret  revealed  that  had  never 
passed  those  lips,  not  even  to  his  treasured  Florence — a 
portrait  of  a fair  and  lovely  girl,  which  he  had  sketched  from 
memory,  and  which  a few  subjoined  lines  declared  the  object 
of  his  love.  Yes,  wedded  as  he  had  seemed  to  his  glorious 
gifts,  Walter  had  loved  ; and  innumerable  lines  of  his  latter 
poems  returned  to  his  sister’s  recollection  to  confirm  this,  and 
reveal  the  secret  magic  which  had  kindled  his  wondrous  gift 
to  life.  But  whom  that  portrait  represented,  Florence  knew 
not ; the  simple  word  Lucy”  was  all  it  bore,  and  never,  to 
her  recollection,  had  Walter  breathed  the  name.  And  there 
were  passages  alike  in  prose  and  verse,  in  which,  as  if  for 
relief,  he  had  thrown  his  own  burdened  soul ; and  by  them  it 
seemed  to  Florence  that  his  love  was  as  unknown  to  its  object 
as  to  every  other.  Poverty,  station,  appeared  the  impassable 
barriers,  and  then  she  understood  the  wild  yearnings  to  see  his 
work  in  print,  that  it  might  reach  Tier  hand,  and  caj^l  forth 
responses  from  her  heart. 

“Yes,”  one  paper  ran,  “yes,  beloved  and  lovely  one,  thine 
eyes  may  glisten  with  sweet  tears  as  thou  lookest  on  my  page, 
and  thou  wilt  not  know  how  deeply,  how  indivisibly  thine 
image  inspired  the  poem  thou  readest.  Will  any  sweet  spirit 

M 


162 


WOMAI^  S FEIEITDSHIP. 


Tvhisper,  ’tis  the  voice  of  one  that  loved  thee,  would  have  died- 
for  thee  ? Thou  wilt  mingle  with  the  wealthy  and  the  gay 
thy  smile  will  beam  on  some  dearer  one.  Thou  wilt,  thou 
must  be  loved — and  I — oh  ! to  pass  away  from  the  world  that 
holds  thee,  without  one  regretting  tear,  one  sigh — ^better, 
better  this,  than  live  on,  and  know  I can  be  nought  to  thee  ? 
Why  does  poverty  fling  his  links  of  ice  around  my  soul — * 
chaining  me  down  to  earth  ? Why  is  wealth  so  unequally 
divided,  that  some  must  droop  and  die  in  penury  and  woe^ 
and  others — God — God  of  mercy  ! pardon  thou  my  murmuring: 
— lift  up  this  bruised  soul  to  thee.’’ 

And  the  paper  was  stained  and  blotted  as  by  burning  tears. 
And  then  again  she  read — 

''  Death  ! is  it  so  ? Yes.  I know  that  I must  die — and 
wherefore  do  I shudder  and  quail  ? Can  it  be  that  I have 
hoped  that  talent  might  do  its  work,  and  make  me  in  time 
even  worthy  to  be  loved  by  her — that  poesy  should  bring  tho 
poet  forward,  and  even  the  rich,  the  noble  would  court 
Walter  ? Down  with  the  delusive  hope  ! I may  not  live — 
oh  ! why  does  submission  fly  me,  when  I thought  myself 
resigned — thought  that  I loved  my  God  ! Earth,  earth,  when 
thou  boldest  love,  how  may  we  turn  from  thee — without 
grief  ?” 

Another  paper,  of  a later  date,  bore  words  such  as  these — 

‘‘It  is  over — day  by  day  draws  me  nearer  the  final  goal — - 
and,  blessed  be  my  Father,  I can  die  without  a pang.  She 
will  look  upon  my  work,  and  love  perchance  its  author — ay, 
even  drop  a tear  that  he  hath  gone  so  soon.  I shall  be  with 
her  in  her  private  hours,  none  other  shall  divide  her  thoughts 
with  me.  Perchance  her  lip  may  give  new  music  to  my  words, 
her  voice  breathe  them  in  song,  her  heart  retain  and  love 
them.  Oh ! that  the  freed  spirit  might  hover  round  thee, 
beloved  one,  in  those  moments,  till  poetry  may  have  more 
than  earthly  power.  Perchance  it  will.  Oh,  the  deep,  voice- 
less bliss,  if  such  may  be  I” 

There  were  many  other  similar  papers,  and  Florence  felt  till 
that  moment  she  had  never  before  known  the  fulness  of  his 
woe.  At  all  times  it  needs  composure  to  look  over  the  records 
of  the  dead  ; they  seem  to  speak  in  spiritual  tones,  to  print 
themselves  upon  the  heart.  Every  paper  is  sanctified,  every 
line  is  holy ; and  often  and  often  they  tell  of  suffering  and  of 
worth,  which  we  knew  not  until  then ; and  w^e  mourn,  that 


woman’s  friendship. 


163 


tlie  feelings  they  excite  must  lie  'withering  on  onr  ow^n  hearts, 
for  those  round  whom  they  yearn  to  twdne  have  passed  away 
for  ever. 

Florence  trusted  neither  her  own  nor  Mrs.  Leslie’s  composure 
sufficiently  to  impart  the  secret  of  those  papers;  she  could 
only  throw  herself  on  her  mother’s  neck,  and  sob  forth, 
‘^Walter — some  future  time — his  papers  are  in  the  chest.” 
And  Mrs.  Leslie  grasped  her  hand  convulsively  without  the 
utterance  of  a single  word.  She  had  never  shed  a tear  from 
the  hour  her  boy  departed. 

Nor  did  Minie’s  buoyant  spirit  rally ; she  seemed  oppressed 
as  by  some  heavy  gloom,  even  more  than  by  her  brother’s 
death  ; her  child-like  trust  in  Lady  St.  Maur’s  continued 
regard  was  failing ; she  had  seen  the  Countess’s  arrival  an- 
nounced, the  new  honours  bestowed ; read  day  after  day  her 
name  at  some  fete  or  drawing-room,  and  at  length  her  guileless 
spirit  began  to  incline  to  her  sister  and  brother’s  belief,  that 
all  was  indeed  at  an  end  between  them.  Oh  ! how  bitterly 
painful  is  the  first  clouding  over  of  youth’s  sweet  visions,  the 
first  crushing  blight  of  confidence  and  love,  the  first  conscious- 
ness that  life  is  not  so  fair  and  bright,  nor  friends  so  true  as 
we  have  pictured ! 

Many  thoughts  were  busy  in  the  heart  of  Florence,  though 
she  spoke  them  not ; strength  was  gradually  returning,  but 
the  disinclination  for  all  exertion,  the  almost  loathing  with 
which,  in  her  weakened  frame  and  aching  heart,  she  thought 
of  resuming  the  tasteless  toil  of  teaching,  it  seemed  as  if  she 
could  not  overcome.  How  was  she,  where  was  she  to  seek 
employment  ? The  voice  of  duty,  so  peculiarly  powerful  in 
her  heart,  repeatedly  prompted,  Write  to  Lady  St.  Maur ; 
she  has  influence,  and  will  aid  you.”  But  she  felt  as  if  to  do 
so  was  impossible ; she  shrunk  in  agony  from  appealing  for 
herself,  where  the  appeal  for  her  brother  had  been  so  utterly 
disregarded  ; yet  she  thought  it  pride,  and  condemned  it 
severely.  In  the  state  of  physical  suffering  to  wdiich  she  was 
reduced,  she  felt  as  if  the  very  support  of  self-esteem  had 
departed  from  her  ; that  to  meet  or  have  any  intercourse  with 
Lady  St.  Maur,  now  that  their  social  position  was  so  widely 
severed,  she  could  not  endure  ; shrinking  more  and  more  into 
herself,  affliction  might  have  painfully  tarnished  the  beautiful 
character  of  Florence,  had  she  not  been  once  more  roused  bj 
the  call  of  affection — a call  never  heard  by  her  in  vain. 

M 2 


164 


woman’s  friendship. 


Notwithstanding  all  Morton’s  benevolent  care  and  exertion, 
it  became  more  and  more  evident  that  Minie’s  beauty  and 
extraordinary  voice  were  exposing  her  to  increased  annoyance, 
the  more  widely  she  became  known : that  she  was  poor  and 
unprotected  only  gave  license  to  the  gay,  frivolous  idlers,  who 
thronged  her  path  to  the  houses  she  visited.  Address  her 
they  did  not,  but  even  her  guileless  nature  could  not  remain 
insensible  to  their  openly  avowed  admiration  ; and  she  was  too 
painfully  annoyed  to  conceal  it  as  effectually  as  she  wished 
from  her  sister. 

It  was  one  lovely  afternoon  in  the  beginning  of  August  that 
Florence  sat  watching  her  mother’s  couch,  wrapt  in  thought 
too  painful,  too  intense,  to  admit  of  her  reading  as  she  had 
intended.  Mrs.  Leslie  had  been  more  than  usually  unwell, 
and,  to  satisfy  her  daughters,  had  promised  to  remain  quietly 
in  her  room.  How  long  Florence  thus  sat  she  knew  not ; but, 
fearful  lest  her  resolution  should  fail,  she  rose,  and  moving 
softly  and  lightly  so  as  not  to  disturb  her  mother,  procured 
writing  materials,  and  sat  down  to  her  task.  But  she  could 
go  no  farther ; the  pen  rested  on  the  paper,  and  her  brain  felt 
dull  and  heavy  with  its  press  of  thought.  How  even  to 
address  the  Countess  St.  Maur  she  knew  not ; every  term  she 
thought  of  was  too  familiar  or  too  formal.  Her  vivid  fancy 
transported  her  back  to  days  when  the  very  thought  of  com- 
municating to  Lady  Ida  all  her  girlish  joys  and  feelings  was 
such  happiness — why,  why  was  she  so  changed  ? And  dropping 
the  pen,  she  leaned  her  brow  on  her  hands,  and  wept  bitterly. 
At  that  moment  she  felt  Minie’s  arm  thrown  round,  en- 
deavouring to  unclasp  her  hands  with  such  a joyous  whisper, 
that  she  looked  up,  startled. 

‘‘  Go  down  stairs,  Florence ; you  are  wanted  in  the  parlour. 
Hush ! not  a question,  or  we  shall  disturb  mamma — you  must  go 
— indeed  you  are  wanted.  I will  stay  here.  Go,  there’s  a good  girl.” 

In  vain  Florence  looked  the  entreaties  why  she  was  wanted; 
Minie  was  inexorable,  and  hastily  bathing  her  eyes,  she 
descended  to  their  little  sitting-room.  A lady  was  looking 
intently  on  poor  Walter’s  last  work,  ‘‘The  Poet’s  Home,” 
which  was  framed  and  hung  up  opposite  the  door,  so  that  her 
face,  as  Florence  entered,  was  turned  from  her.  She  knew  not 
why,  but  power  deserted  her  for  the  moment,  and  a gust  of 
wind  impelled  the  door  from  her  trembling  hold,  and  closed  it 
with  sufficient  noise  to  make  the  stranger  turn. 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


165 


Florence ! my  dear  Florence ! I am  so  glad  that  I have 
found  you,”  were  the  kindly  words  that  greeted  her  ; but  she 
scarcely  knew  their  sense,  she  only  heard  the  voicBy  which  even 
more  than  features  has  power  to  stir  the  inmost  soul  with 
memory ; and  felt  that  the  arm  of  Lady  St.  Maur  was  thrown, 
as  in  former  days,  caressingly  around  her — her  kiss  was  on 
her  cheek. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


MISCONCEPTIONS  EXPLAINED. — FLORENCE  AND  IDA  FRIENDS 
ONCE  MORE. 


It  was  several  minutes  before  Florence  could  regain  composure. 
Pale,  attenuated,  and  careworn.  Lady  St.  Maur  could  barely 
recognise  the  laughing,  animated  girl  whom  she  had  last  seen ; 
and  well  could  she  understand  how  her  unexpected  appearance 
would  recall  the  magic  of  the  past,  and  so  render  the  present 
still  more  sad.  As  Florence  sought  to  excuse  her  emotion,  by 
allusion  to  her  late  illness  and  the  wealmess  it  had  left,  there 
was  a slight  constraint  in  her  manner,  almost  unknown  to 
herself,  but  perceptible  to  the  Countess,  whose  ready  mind  at 
once  suspected  the  cause.  Do  not  apologize  for  natural 
feeling,  dearest  Florence,''  she  replied  ; I am  not  so  changed 
as  to  shrink  from  its  display,  or  to  wish  for  more  restraint 
from  you  than  when  we  parted  : you  had  then  only  joy  to 
feel  and  impart ; believe  me,  I can  feel  for  and  sympathize 
with  you  equally  in  sorrow."  Florence  looked  up  eagerly,  but 
the  words  she  sought  to  speak  died  on  her  lips.  Florence  1" 
continued  the  Countess,  taking  both  her  hands,  and  spealdng 
very  earnestly,  there  is  something  wrong  between  us — some 
mystery — some  misconception,  which  I am  here  solely  to 
remove.  You  are  changed,  for  you  are  doubting  me  ; I am 
not ; for  though  appearances  have  been  strong  against  you,  I 
will  not  believe  them  till  confirmed  by  your  own  lips." 

‘‘Appearances  against  me!"  gasped  Florence,  her  cheek 
blanching  and  her  lip  quivering ; “ what  can  you  mean  ? " 

“ Why  have  you  not  written  to  me,  Florence,  in  the  heavy 
cares  and  sorrows  which  you  have  been  enduring  the  last 
eighteen  months?  Why  did  you  not  obey  my  last  often- 
repeated  injunction — that  if  my  influence  could  ever  serve 
you,  to  write  to  me  directly  ? I know  enough  of  your  sad 
history  to  be  convinced  that  you  have  needed  that  influence 


woman’s  priendship. 


167 


more  painfully  than  when  I desired  you  to  claim  it  I imagined 
possible  ; yet  you  have  never  written.  Was  this  just  to  me  or 
to  yourself  ? Have  you  not  permitted  sensitiveness  and  pride 
to  come  between  your  heart  and  my  friendship  ? Even  though 
you  did  not  receive  my  letter  to  you  on  your  heavy  loss,  was 
that  enough  for  you  to  lose  all  confidence,  as  never  to  write 
in  still  increasing  sorrow  ? Surely,  surely  affection  must  have 
been  failing  as  w^ell  as  confidence  : you  did  not  love  me  well 
enough  to  asic  my  sympathy  I ” 

Vainly  did  Florence  endeavour  to  reply  ; a mist  seemed  to 
have  so  folded  round  her  faculties,  that  both  past  suffering 
and  present  sensation  were  like  the  distorted  imagination  of  a 
fever  dream.  Had  she  not  written — had  she  not  appealed  to 
that  friendship  and  influence — had  she  not  endured  not  only 
the  misery  of  hope  deferred,  but  of  unanswered  confidence? 
And  then,  with  these  reproachful  but  still  kindly  words,  came 
the  thought  that  she  had  indeed  failed  in  affection ; for  why 
had  she  not  so  trusted  as  to  write  again  ? She  pressed  her 
hands  on  her  burning  forehead,  as  in  sudden  pain. 

‘‘  Florence,  dearest  Florence  ! I did  not  mean  to  pain  you 
thus,”  exclaimed  Lady  St.  Maur,  anxiously.  “ I have  been 
annoyed  at  your  silence ; but  perhaps,  after  all,  you  have  had 
equal  cause  to  be  pained  with  me.  Have  you  ever  written 
to  me  ? Your  answer  may  remove  all  this  misconception  ; for 
if  you  have  asked  my  influence  and  friendship,  and  received 
no  answer,  I can  no  longer  wonder  at  either  your  silence  or 
constraint.  Am  I right  now,  dearest?  Only  speak,  for  I 
cannot  bear  to  see  you  thus.” 

And  Florence  did  speak ; for  the  mist  seemed  melting  from 
her  brain  ; and  she  told  her  she  had  thought  and  thought,  and 
at  length  written,  and  trusted  and  hoped ; even  wLen  weeks 
dwindled  into  months,  and  months  into  a year,  how  she  had 
felt  that  she  could  not  write  again ; but  now  it  did  indeed 
seem  all  pride  and  doubt  which  had  withheld  her.  Why,  why 
did  she  not  write  again  ? 

‘‘  Because  you  could  not  believe  that  important  letter 
should  be  the  only  one  to  miscarry,  and  imagined  that  I had 
changed.  I was  wrong  to  reproach  you,  dearest  Florence ; you 
had  not  known  or  proved  me  long  enough,  to  dismiss  such  too 
natural  suspicion  then,  as  I hope  you  will  henceforward.  Do 
not  grieve  thus  love,  nor  think,  as  I know  you  do,  that  had 
that  letter  been  received,  or  you  had  written  again,  that  your 


168 


woman’s  friendship. 


heaviest  trial  might  have  been  averted.  Let  us  only  rejoice* 
that  we  may  love  each  other  still.”  The  voice  of  sympathy 
and  consolation  so  long  unheard,  had  its  effect,  and  after  a 
brief  pause  Lady  St.  Maur  continued — I am  going  to  ask 
you  some  strange  questions,  Florence,  but  you  will  forgive 
them  when  you  know  their  reason.  Is  there  or  was  there  ever 
a person  bearing  your  own  name  ? ” 

Florence  looked  surprised,  and  answered  in  the  negative. 

Not  a Flora  or  Florence  Leslie  ? ” 

Flora  Leslie  ? — yes.” 

A relation  of  Mrs.  Rivers,  and  an  inmate  of  Woodlands? 

Yes,”  replied  Florence,  more  and  more  surprised. 

Did  you  know  her  ? ” 

^Mntimately.  My  visits  to  Woodlands  were  nominally  as^ 
her  companion.” 

And  why,  in  your  letters  to  me  from  Woodlands,  did  you 
never  mention  her  ? ” 

Because  we  had  so  very  little  in  common,  nor  was  she  at 
all  a person  I thought  likely  to  interest  you.” 

Why,  what  sort  of  person  was  she,  then  ? ” Florence 
hesitated.  Tell  me  her  whole  story,  my  dear  Florence  ; I 
wish  most  particularly  to  know  it.  Have  no  scruples ; you 
will  do  her  no  injury  with  me.” 

Thus  entreated,  Florence  obeyed,  avoiding  as  much  as- 
she  could  any  censorious  observations,  but  revealing  concisely 
the  whole  system  of  deceit,  coquetry,  and  intrigue  formerly 
carried  on  by  Flora — her  elopement,  and  the  effect  it  had  on 
Mrs.  Rivers,  and  her  own  consequent  detention  at  Woodlands. 

^‘Had  you  any  reason  to  believe  that  she  bore  you  any 
personal  ill-will  ? ” inquired  Lady  St.  Maur,  who  had  listened. 
to  the  recital  with  an  interest  Florence  could  not  define. 

‘^Only  from  my  compelled  agency  in  the  circumstance  I 
have  related  to  you.  She  professed  the  contrary,  though  then 
I could  not  believe  in  such  professions  ; but  I did  her  wrong, 
I believe,  for  I have  not  experienced  any  unkindness  from 
her.” 

Lady  St.  Maur  put  her  arm  involuntarily  round  her  young^ 
companion  at  these  words,  her  eyes  glistening  as  she  thought 
how  that  gentle,  unsuspicious  nature  had  been  deceived. 

^‘She  has  done  you  injury,  my  Florence,  by  her  very  simi- 
larity of  name.” 

But  that  she  could  not  help,”  replied  Florence  simply. 


WOMANS  FRIENDSHIP. 


169 


She  could  help  the  shameful  falsehood  of  signing  Florence 
instead  of  Flora  Leslie,  as  I know  she  has  done  to  more  than 
one  individual — a deceit  which  no  doubt  originated  the  annoy- 
ance and  pain  of  your  unjust  expulsion  from  Mrs.  Kussell’s 
family.” 

Mrs.  Russell ! ” repeated  Florence,  in  extreme  astonish- 
ment. 

‘‘  Mrs.  Russell,  dearest.  How  do  you  think  I could  have 
found  you,  if  I had  not  made  inquiries  ? One  more  question 
— are  there  any  other  points  of  resemblance  between  Mrs. 
Major  Hardwicke  (thank  heaven,  she  can  do  you  no  more 
injury  as  Flora  Leslie)  and  yourself  besides  name  ? ” 

We  are  very  unlike,”  answered  Florence,  simply. 

I have  not  the  smallest  doubt  of  it,  my  love.  And  it  will 
be  a direct  contradiction  to  the  theory  of  handwriting  disclos- 
ing character,  if  w^hat  I suspect  be  true.  Is  your  handwriting 
alike  ? ” 

So  much  so,  with  a very  trifling  effort  on  either  her  part 
or  mine,  that  even  mamma  has  scarcely  recognised  the  one 
from  the  other;  nay,  I have  been  puzzled  once  or  twice  myself. 
Why  do  you  ask,  dearest  Lady  St.  Maur  ? tell  me,  pray  tell 
me  ! It  cannot  be  that  she  has  sought  to  injure  me  with  you,” 
exclaimed  Florence,  a light  flashing  on  her  mind;  and  she 
looked  up  in  the  Countess’s  face  pale  with  terror. 

She  has  not  injured  you  with  me,  love ; I am  still  your 
friend,  as  I trust  you  will  find  me  ; but  that  she  has  done  you 
a cruel  injury  is,  I fear,  too  true.  Painful  as  the  discovery 
will  be  to  you,  my  Florence,  I believe  it  had  better  be  revealed. 
You  tell  me  you  wrote  to  me  from  Woodlands  on  the  24th  of 
July,  and  could  not  imagine  why  that  most  important  letter 
should  be  the  only  one  to  miscarry ; it  would  not  have  mis- 
carried (Florence  started  and  gasped  for  breath),  for  its  sub- 
stitute reached  me  in  perfect  safety.  Thi^  was  the  letter  I 
received.  I will  not  do  you  such  injustice  as  even  to  ask  you 
if  it  be  yours.” 

Almost  choked  with  strong  emotion,  Florence  grasped  the 
offered  letter,  opened  it,  and  read ; and  dropping  it,  gazed 
wildly  into  the  face  of  Lady  St.  Maur,  faintly  murmuring — 
‘‘  Walter  ! Walter  ! you  were  the  victim  ! ” threw  herself  on 
the  Countess’s  neck  and  burst  into  passionate  tears. 

Lady  St.  Maur  permitted  her  to  weep,  even  while  she  sought 
with  earnest  tenderness  to  remove  the  agonized  impression  that 


170 


woman’s  feienbship. 


had  her  own  letter  been  received,  Walter’s  fate  might  have 
been  averted.  It  was  no  difficulty  for  her  to  use  the  language 
of  that  spiritual  consolation  which  alone  can  soothe ; for 
religion  was  to  her  the  very  breath  of  her  existence — not  in 
word,  but  in  deed  ; not  in  form,  but  in  thought;  impossible  to 
be  described,  but  so  infusing  her  simplest  word  and  most 
trifling  action,  that  the  most  heedless its  influence,  though 
its  origin  was  invisible.  It  was  easy  for  such  a mind  and  heart 
truly  to  console,  and  lead  the  bruised  spirit  to  its  only  resting- 
place.  And  as  Florence  gradually  recovered,  Lady  St.  Maur 
entered  more  particularly  into  the  reason  of  her  questionings  ; 
narrating  all  that  had  passed,  both  in  Italy  and  England,  to 
mislead  and  mystify  her ; avoiding  all  which  could  give  un- 
necessary pain,  by  exalting  her  own  merits  in  not  doubting  her 
when  every  one  else  did,  but  simply  stating  facts — the  combi- 
nation of  circumstances  which  had  prevented  her  applying  by 
letter  for  the  meaning  of  an  epistle  which  from  the  first  she 
had  doubted  as  coming  from  Florence.  So  that  even  while 
deeply  wounded,  as  she  could  not  fail  to  be,  at  the  discovery 
of  such  cruel  injury,  she  was  inexpressibly  soothed  by  the 
conviction  of  the  confidence  and  affection  felt  towards  her  by 
the  friend  she  had  so  long  loved. 

Lady  St.  Maur  did  not  leave  without  seeing  Mrs.  Leslie, 
and  she  was  shocked  and  grieved  at  the  change  she  beheld,  too 
forcibly  impressing  the  conviction,  that  all  of  sorrow  for  the 
sisters  was  not  yet  past.  The  widow  was  painfully  agitated. 

The  strong  man  and  the  beautiful  alike  are  gone,”  she  said, 
after  a pause,  and  in  a tone  that  thrilled  through  her  hearers  ; 

and  I the  weak,  the  suffering,  the  useless,  am  still  spared. 
Yet  who  may  question  the  decrees  of  the  Eternal?  My 
husband  and  my  child  are  with  Him,  and  He  will  take  me  to 
them  when  He  deems  it  best.” 

The  young  Countess  listened  reverentially,  her  whole  manner 
betraying  how  completely  she  felt  that  sorrow  and  suffering 
had  sanctified  and  raised  the  widow  much  higher  in  the  scale 
of  immortal  being  than  rank  or  wealth.  And  hundreds  might 
have  envied  the  feelings  of  pure  and  blissful  satisfaction  with 
which,  after  a very  lengthened  visit.  Lady  St.  Maur  returned 
to  her  own  lordly  home,  finding  an  increase  of  individual 
happiness  in  her  unceasing  thoughts  and  care  for  the  happiness 
of  others. 


CHAPTER  XXXL 


THE  SCENE  IS  CHANGED— LADY  IDA’s  PLANS. — THE  SECRET 
STILL. 


In  less  than  three  months,  the  position  of  the  Leslie  family, 
both  domestic  and  social,  was  so  changed,  that  had  it  not  been 
for  one  sad  thought,  their  past  sufferings  would  have  seemed 
a passing  dream.  But  who,  however  sanctified  and  spiritual- 
ized by  true  piety,  can  yet  entirely  subdue  the  anguish  of 
bereavement,  or  realize  what  they  at  some  time  most  deeply 
feel,  that  the  fate  of  the  beloved  departed  in  such  undying 
felicity,  it  would  indeed  be  selfish  love  to  call  them  back  once 
more.  But  Mrs.  Leslie  was  not  one  to  undervalue  present 
blessings,  because  they  had  come  too  late  for  him  to  whom  they 
would  indeed  have  mmistered  such  joy.  Minie  had  no  more 
need  to  leave  the  safety  of  her  lowly  home  ; and  Florence,  her 
noble  Florence,  was  sought  for,  loved,  cherished,  as  her  gentle 
virtues  claimed. 

The  Countess  St.  Maur’s  friendship,  like  her  benevolence, 
was  of  no  passive  nature.  Convinced  herself  that  not  a shadow 
of  suspicion  could  attach  itself  to  the  conduct  of  Florence,  she 
proved  her  innocence  to  Lady  Mary,  the  Earl,  and  his  mother, 
by  bringing  her  and  Captain  Camden  (who  had  returned  from 
Malta  with  his  regiment)  unexpectedly  together,  a manoeuvre 
insisted  upon  by  Alfred  Melford,  who  introduced  the  captain 
for  the  purpose,  and  declared  that  the  manner  of  their  meeting 
must  confirm  or  deny  Miss  Leslie’s  identity  with  the  coquette 
of  Winchester  far  more  completely  than  anything  else.  The 
gallant  captain  certainly  started  and  coloured  at  the  name, 
but  recovered  himself  the  instant  that  he  glanced  at  its  un- 
known bearer;  and  Florence’s  calm  and  unconcerned  bow  when 


172 


woman’s  friendship. 


he  was  presented  to  her,  with  some  degree  of  empressement  by 
Melford,  must  have  convinced  the  most  suspicious  that  she 
had  never  seen  him  before,  much  less  carried  on  the  correspon- 
dence of  which  she  was  accused. 

Lady  Mary  was  highly  indignant  that  the  Countess  should 
have  thought  any  such  proof  necessary ; she  had  already  met 
Florence  with  extended  hand  and  cordial  smile,  her  prejudice 
having  completely  vanished  from  the  time  Melford  had  so 
eloquently  repeated  Mrs.  Everett’s  narrative.  Whether  his 
eloquence  had  anything  to  do  with  it,  we  will  not  pretend  to 
say  ; completely  a creature  of  impulse,  she  was  now  as  warm 
in  the  cause  as  she  had  before  been  cool.  Minie’s  excessive 
loveliness  had  irresistibly  attracted  her,  and  innumerable  plans 
for  her  making  a proper  use  of  that  beauty  and  splendid  voice, 
by  an  introduction  to  the  highest  circles,  which  she  would  take 
care  to  bring  about,  and  so  making  a match  of  such  eclat  as 
to  excite  the  envy  of  the  whole  fashionable  world  ; plans,  we 
need  scarcely  say,  completely  shattered  by  the  positive  disap- 
proval of  the  Countess  St.  Maur,  who  insisted  that  her  mother’s 
roof  was  the  best  place  for  one  so  lovely.  It  required  no  small 
portion  of  dispassionate  arguments  on  the  part  of  the  Countess 
to  bring  her  friend  to  reason,  and  convince  her  that  she  could 
materially  add  to  the  happiness  of  her  beautiful  favourite, 
without  bringing  her  so  unduly  forward.  It  was  strange, 
perhaps,  that  with  her  secret  feelings  towards  Melford,  she  did 
not  fear  to  bring  Minie  so  forward  ; but  Lady  Mary  had  not 
such  an  unworthy  emotion  in  her  nature.  She  w’as  becoming 
more  and  more  conscious  of  very  strong  regard,  and  a most 
earnest  longing,  in  the  very  midst  of  her  badinage  and  constant 
quarrellings,  that  Alfred  Melford  would  find  something  in  her 
to  approve  and  respect,  as  much  as  he  did  in  his  cousin  Ida  ; 
whether  he  did  or  not,  she  could  not  feel  quite  sure,  yet  she 
would  no  more  have  descended  to  the  petty  meanness  of  de- 
crying or  concealing  the  beauty  and  worth  of  another,  than 
she  could  have  betrayed,  by  the  faintest  sign  or  word,  her 
secret  love. 

To  very  many  persons,  situated  as  was  Lady  St.  Maur, 
the  means  of  effectually  serving  Florence  would  have  been 
sufficiently  difficult  as  to  prevent  the  exertion  required.  To 
provide  employment  in  their  own  establishment  would  be  im- 
possible, because  it  would  be  very  disagreeable  to  treat  as  an 
inferior  one  with  whom  they  had  once  associated  almost  upon 


woman’s  fbiendship. 


173 


equality ; yet  if  they  occupied  the  position  of  companion  or 
governess,  it  would  be  difficult  to  do  otherwise. 

The  Lady  St.  Maur  s notions  were,  by  a certain  set,  con- 
sidered very  nearly  akin  to  insanity,  and  only  endured  because 
of  that  indescribable  something  which,  when  in  her  presence, 
none  could  resist,  was  a matter  of  very  little  importance  either 
to  herself  or  her  family ; but  never  did  she  value  her  rank  and 
influence  so  much  as  when  she  felt  how  completely  they  raised 
her  above  such  opinions,  leading  others  often  to  do  good  deeds, 
not  for  their  own  worth,  but  because  so  did  the  Countess  St. 
Maur. 

Her  first  care  was  to  endeavour  to  restore  the  elasticity  of 
health,  which  Florence  had  not  felt  for  many  long  months,  and 
in  some  of  the  pleasant  drives,  tete-a-tete,  which,  combining 
pure  air  and  mental  recreation,  were  gTatefully  beneficial,  she 
drew  from  Florence  her  own  wishes  and  plans. 

‘‘  But,  my  dear  girl,  Minie  appears  much  more  fitted  than 
yourself  for  the  arduous  toil  of  instruction,”  the  Countess  one 
day  said;  ‘^she  has  stronger  health  and  better  spirits,  and 
may  be  sure  of  a sufficiency  of  pupils ; why  not  change  your 
respective  duties  ? ” 

‘'Because,  Lady  St.  Maur,  I pledged  my&elf  years  ago  never 
to  let  Minie  leave  her  mother.” 

“ But  are  you  not  making  an  unnecessary  sacrifice,  Florence? 
Minie  does  not  dislike  the  life  she  leads.” 

“ Only  because  it  allows  me  to  remain  at  home.  But  when 
I remember  how  Walter  shrunk  in  agony  from  such  a life  for 
Minie,  how  my  father’s  heart  would  have  broken,  could  he 
have  seen  his  darling  exposed  to  the  rude  world  as  she  is  now, 
I cannot  let  her  continue.  Besides,  it  is  unjust ; when  I found 
myself,  in  conjunction  with  my  brother,  as  representatives  of 
our  lamented  father,  I knew  that  all  our  own  little  fortune  must 
be  sacrificed;  but  Minie  and  my  mother  were  spared  this.  How 
then  can  I remain  idle,  when  I,  in  fact,  am  the  only  one  called 
upon  to  work  ?” 

“And  can  nothing  change  this  resolution,  Florence  ? Do 
duty  and  inclination  both  point  the  same  way  ? ” 

“They  will,  I hope,  in  time.  I dare  not  answer  that  they 
do  now ; many,  many  feelings  must  rise  up  to  cause  a strife 
between  them.” 

“Amongst  which  not  the  least  painful  is,  that  as  dependent, 
chained  to  one  employment  day  after  day,  how  can  the 


174 


woman’s  triendship. 


Countess  St.  Maur  be  to  Florence  Leslie  as  she  is  now  ? and 
it  is  hard  that  circumstances  should  again  throw  a barrier 
between  her  and  the  little  unselfish  heart  which,  through 
years  of  apparent  unldndness  and  neglect,  has  loved  her  so 
truly.  Am  I very  conceited,  Florence,  or  do  I read  aright?” 

Florence  looked  up,  her  eyes  swelling  in  large  tears,  but  she 
did  not  attempt  reply. 

‘^Now,  suppose  independence  could  be  made  your  own,  re- 
moving all  necessity  for  you  to  leave  3mur  mother,  would  you 
accept  it?” 

'‘Not  while  I have  health  and  power  to^  labour,”  replied 
Florence,  firmly;  "unless  it  came  from  a near  and  dear 
relative.  Such  a one  I have  not  in  the  wide  world.  No — 
however  I might  love  the  friend  who  would  do  this,  that  love 
would  become  a weight  instead  of  joy.  I should  be  depressed 
and  burdened,  lowered  in  my  own  estimation,  and  surely  in 
that  of  others.  I would  retain  my  own  integrity  and  inde- 
pendence, and  I should  feel  as  if  both  were  compromised  in 
accepting  such  an  obligation.  If  this  be  too  much  pride, 
forgive  it,  dear  Lady  St.  Maur.  I could  not  retain  your 
esteem  and  regard,  did  I feel  otherwise.” 

" It  is  I who  must  ask  forgiveness,  dearest  Florence ; I have 
been  trying  you  too  severely,  but  I washed  to  convince  my 
reason  before  I acted  on  my  feelings.  Now  listen  to  my  plans, 
and  perhaps  duty  and  inclination  may  be  more  closely  con- 
nected than  you  fancy.” 

And  she  proceeded  to  state  her  wishes  that  Florence  should 
become  an  inmate  of  her  family.  Not  as  a useless  member, 
she  added,  with  a smile,  for  that  she  saw  Florence  was  much 
too  proud  to  be  ; but  to  be  useful  in  a multitude  of  ways, 
partly  as  Lady  Helen’s  companion  ; for  since  their  arrival  in 
London,  that  lady,  not  wishing  to  enter  into  the  vortex  of 
fashionable  life,  so  incumbent  on  her  son  and  daughter,  was  in 
consequence  obliged  at  times  to  be  left  alone  ; and  partly  to 
superintend  the  education  of  Constance  St.  Maur,  the  little 
girl,  it  may  be  remembered,  left  by  the  last  Baron  St.  Maur, 
under  the  guardianship  of  his  heir  and  Lady  Ida.  From 
what  she  had  seen  of  this  child,  the  Countess  said  she  was 
being  completely  ruined  by  the  foolish  fondness  of  an  old 
relative,  and  the  superficial  education  of  a professed  fashionable 
establishment,  that  she  had  not  intended  to  have  taken  her  so 
young  from  school,  but  on  consideration  had  determined  on 


woman’s  friendship. 


175 


performing  lier  promise  to  the  child’s  father  to  the  utmost,  by 
giving  her  at  once  the  advantages  of  a residence  under  her  own 
roof.  The  mere  drudgery  of  teaching  she  had  resolved  should 
not  devolve  on  Florence,  wdio,  she  was  convinced,  had  not 
physical  strength  for  it ; but  she  wished  her  to  superintend 
her  education,  to  instruct  the  heart  more  than  the  head,  to 
train  the  will  and  temper  yet  more  than  the  mind  ; to  do  this 
for  Constance  now,  and  in  one  or  two  years  more  for  her  own 
darlings,  Helen  and  Ida,  whom  she  and  the  Earl  would  trust 
with  Florence  as  confidently  and  securely  as  with  herself ; and 
in  addition  to  all  this,  she  laughingly  pursued,  resolved  on 
checking  the  strong  emotion  with  which  her  companion  sought 
to  reply,  to  be  still  the  Countess’s  friend,  and  in  that  character, 
to  be  called  upon  for  services  in  her  large  establishment  far  too 
numerous  to  name.  Would  these  momentous  duties  render 
her  a sufficiently  useful  member  of  the  family,  to  receive  what- 
ever salary  the  Countess  might  choose,  without  compromise  of 
her  own  proud  independence. 

That  depends,”  replied  Florence,  with  a smile  almost  as 
arch  as  those  of  former  years. 

Indeed  ! well  then.  Miss  Leslie,  you  are  to  please  to  re- 
member that,  firstly,  I have  engaged  you,  not  for  one,  but  for 
a variety  of  duties.  Secondly,  that  in  my  establishment  you 
will  incur  personal  expenses,  which  you  would  not  incur  at 
home  ; and,  lastly,  wdiich  combines  all  the  rest,  my  will  is  law^ 
and  being  in  these  matters  incomparably  Vv^iser  than  yourself, 
you  will  abide  by  my  decision.  Flave  you  not  yet  found  out, 
Florence,”  she  continued,  in  her  own  tone,  that  I have  a will 
of  my  own,  and,  in  consequence,  hold  the  world’s  supremo 
authority  on  some  things  in  most  supreme  contempt,  on 
nothing  more  than  the  manner  in  which  it  regards  those  in- 
valuable friends  to  whom  we  intrust  the  moral  and  mental 
training  of  our  children.” 

Lady  St.  Maur  was  not,  however,  content  with  securing 
Florence’s  personal  comfort  alone.  At  her  recjuest.  Sir  Charles 
Brashleigh  visited  Mrs.  Leslie,  and  on  giving  his  opinion  that 
though  fearfully  shattered  by  anxiety  and  trial,  and  the  victim 
of  a disease  in  itself  quite  incurable,  the  pure  air  and  repose  of 
the  country  would  be  far  more  beneficial  than  a residence  in 
London,  a lieautiful  little  cottage  on  their  estate  in  Warwick- 
shire was  offered  to  Mrs.  Leslie  by  the  Earl,  to  occupy  either 
as  a yearly  tenant,  or  on  lease,  whichever  slie  might  prefer. 


176 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


Its  greatest  attraction,  he  declared,  being  its  close  vicinity  to 
Florence,  who,  for  at  least  six  or  eight  months  in  the  year, 
would  be  living  at  Amersley  Hall,  not  ten  minutes’  walk  from 
the  cottage. 

The  tie  which  has  bound  you  so  closely  in  years  of  suffer- 
ing must  not  be  severed  in  joy,”  he  said,  with  feeling.  ‘'There 
is  to  me  an  actual  sanctity  in  family  love,  which  I wish  my 
children  taught  by  example  as  well  as  precept ; and  I know 
not  where  they  would  see  it  more  forcibly  before  them  than  in 
your  family.” 

Lord  and  Lady  St.  Maur  knew  well  how  to  secure  gratitude, 
for  Mrs.  Leslie  and  her  daughters  felt  raised,  not  lowered,  by 
the  appreciating  kindness  they  received. 

On  the  night  after  their  taking  possession  of  their  little 
cottage  (Minie’s  delight  not  a little  increased  by  the  plentiful 
supply  of  ancient  and  modern  music  sent  down  expressly  for 
her  use),  Mrs.  Leslie  thought  long  and  painfully  before  she 
retired  to  rest.  Again  her  fearful  secret  weighed  upon  her, 
filling  her  with  reproach  and  dread.  “Associated  with  the 
noblest  and  the  best — weave  round  her  yet  more  strongly  Lady 
St.  Maur’s  regard.  It  is  indeed  wrong  to  permit  this,  and  still 
be  silent?”  so  ran  her  mysterious  communings.  “Yet  is  not  my 
child  worthy  ? — oh,  how  nobly  worthy  ! — and  shall  the  dark 
truth  blight  all  of  returning  happiness  ? But  why  not  to  the 
Countess  alone? — would  she,  too,  look  on  my  poor  child  as  the 
outcast,  the  victim  ? How  may  I risk  it  ? Why  did  I teach 
those  infant  lips  to  call  me  by  so  sweet  a name,  which  is  in 
truth  not  mine  ? It  is  vain — vain  ! I cannot  recall  it  now. 
If  concealment  be  sin — oh,  let  its  punishment  fall  on  me ; but 
spare.  Father  of  Mercy ! spare  my  child ! ” 


CHAPTER  XXXIL 


THE  heart’s  awakening. 


‘^All  women  love,  have  loved,  or  are  capable  of  loving,” 
wrote  an  elegant  delineator  of  the  female  heart ; and  though 
Florence  had  arrived  at  the  age  of  two-and-twenty,  and  we 
have  not  once  written  the  magic  word  in  conjunction  with 
herself,  it  was  not  that  she  was  incapable  of  the  emotion,  but 
that  she  had  never  associated  with  any  one  at  all  likely  to  call 
it  forth.  Her  life,  as  we  have  seen,  had  passed  in  comparative 
obscurity.  The  precarious  health  of  her  mother  and  brother, 
and  many  anxieties  and  cares,  had  prevented  all  society.  Day 
after  day,  often  from  ten  till  six,  passed  in  the  mechanical  act 
of  teaching,  could  be  little  productive  of  any  feeling  save  that 
of  exhausting  weariness,  which  yearns  only  jfor  rest  and  quiet- 
ness, seeming  to  shrink  even  from  the  idea  of  happiness,  if  to 
obtain  it  demanded  exertion.  No  reality,  therefore,  could  take 
possession  of  her  heart ; but  fancy  had  not  been  idle. 

Minie  had  very  often  wondered  what  there  could  be  in  long 
political  details  to  interest  her  sister,  and,  perhaps,  Florence 
sometimes  wondered  herself ; but  there  was  a spell  in  the  youth- 
ful eloquence  of  Francis  Howard,  even  in  its  tame  repetition 
by  the  press,  that  was  acknowledged  by  all  England.  Was  it 
wonder,  then,  that  Florence,  with  a heart  and  mind  so  pecu- 
liarly awake  to  beauty  and  truth,  should  find  pleasure  in  its 
perusal  ? It  had  been  only  the  last  session  that  young 
Howard  had  actually  been  in  the  House,  and  even  then,  by  a 
most  unprecedented  triumph  of  public  favour,  for  he  had 
barely  completed  his  twenty-first  year ; but  his  great  talents, 
his  truth-seeking  and  truth-proclaiming  mind,  had  through 
various  striking  pamphlets  already  made  him  known,  and  it 

N 


178 


woman’s  friendship. 


was  long  extracts  from  these  which  had  so  often  riveted  the 
attention  and  admiration  of  Florence. 

In  the  happy  memories  of  Lady  Ida’s  ball,  Francis  Howard 
had  always  stood  forth  conspicuous.  Florence’s  intuitive 
perception  of  mental  nobility  had  even  then  distinguished  him 
as  different  to  any  other  of  her  partners  ; and  delighting  in  his 
conversation  and  in  the  zest  with  which,  like  herself,  he 
entered  into  the  enjoyments  of  the  evening,  had  danced  with 
him  more  often  than  with  any  one  else,  not  thinking  a moment 
of  his  attention  to  herself,  but  simply  that  it  was  a pleasure 
to  talk  to  so  intelligent  a person. 

During  his  week’s  sojourn  at  St.  John’s  she  had  met  him 
often,  but  had  regarded  him  with  no  softer  feeling  than  that 
of  pleasant  companionship.  The  many  cares  and  sorrows 
which  afterwards  ensued  had,  as  it  were,  riveted  these  memo- 
ries with  a sweetness,  which  might  not  have  been  the  case  had 
she  been  more  happily  situated  in  after  life.  The  name  of 
Francis  Howard  had  attracted  her,  and  she  read  the  various 
notices  about  him  simply  from  the  memory  of  the  past.  The 
more  she  read,  the  more  she  felt  how  congenial  would  be  his 
mind  and  Walter’s ; that  Howard  would  indeed  have  given 
her  brother's  glorious  gift  its  due  ; and  perhaps  this  longing 
had  added  to  the  bitterness  of  disappointment  at  Lady  St. 
Maur’s  silence. 

Our  readers  will  perhaps  remember  that  young  Howard  had 
been  with  Melford  the  day  that  Florence  had  called  on  the 
Viscountess,  when  anxious  to  obtain  her  influence  in  procur- 
ing a situation,  and  that  they  had  accompanied  her  to  the 
stage  on  her  way  home.  Melford  had  indeed  been  the  prin- 
cipal spokesman  on  that  occasion,  but  the  countenance  of 
Howard,  the  few  words,  but  most  respectful  manner,  filling  up 
the  image  which  his  eloquence  h‘ad  created  even  more  than  the 
memory  of  the  past,  had  lingered  strangely,  and  at  first 
almost  engrossingly,  on  the  vivid  imagination  of  Florence, 
adding  increase  of  eagerness  to  read  in  his  writings  the  reflec- 
tion of  his  mind.  How  many,  many  hours  of  solitude  at  Mrs. 
Kussell’s  heightened  this  illusion  in  exact  conformity  with  the 
truth-breathing  sentence  which  we  quoted  at  the  commence- 
ment of  this  chapter.  Florence  neither  loved  nor  had  loved, 
but  the  vast  capabilities  in  her  heart  for  that  emotion  occa- 
sioned the  creation  of  an  image  to  satisfy  its  yearnings.  The 
trials  which  followed  her  departure  from  Mrs.  Kussell’s,  though 


woman’s  friendship. 


179 


they  rendered  such  thoughts  less  engrossing,  could  not  banish 
them  entirely.  She  was  herself  perfectly  unconscious  of  their 
nature  or  their  power  : rather  rejoicing  that  circumstances  had 
prevented  her  from  ever  experiencing  that  emotion,  whose 
power  and  intensity  she  had  so  instinctively  dreaded  in  her 
youth. 

We  are  no  believers  in  what  is  termed  love  at  first  sight, 
but  we  do  believe  that  some  faces  have  the  power  of  attrac- 
tion, and  are  the  magnet,  as  it  were,  to  the  needle  of  the 
mind,  so  holding  the  fancy  chained.  For  this  infatuation, 
intimate  association  is  as.  often  the  cure  as  the  confirmer. 
Still,  even  when  the  latter  is  not  love,  but  simply  a species  of 
animal  magnetism,  chaining  the  mind  to  one  object,  love  itself 
never  comes  till  the  yearning  is  swallowed  up  in  the  truth,  the 
worth,  the  affection  of  the  being  with  whom  the  invisible 
chain  hath  bound  us,  making  two  one  ere  either  was  aware. 

The  months  of  September  and  October  were  pleasant 
months  at  Amersley.  The  intimate  friends  of  Lord  and  Lady 
St.  Maur  were  constantly  staying  with  them,  occasioning  a 
series  of  domestic  enjoyments,  peculiarly  pleasurable  to 
Florence.  From  actual  gaiety,  her  heart,  still  filled  with  the 
memories  of  Walter,  would  painfully  have  shrunk ; but  this 
was  not  gaiety,  it  was  enjoyment.  That  her  young  charge 
often  occasioned  her  disappointment,  demanding  extreme 
forbearance  and  control,  to  obtain  dominion  over  a proud, 
sullen  spirit  and  uncomplying  temper,  were  difficulties  in  her 
task  which  Florence  not  only  determined  to  overcome,  but 
met  willingly,  satisfied  that  in  patiently  seeking  to  subdue  the 
faults  of  Constance,  she  was  really  forwarding  the  wishes  of 
her  friends,  and  proving  also  her  own  earnest  desire  to  evince 
herself  worthy  of  the  important  trust  she  held.  Mornings  of 
even  ungrateful  employment  would  have  been  more  than 
recompensed  by  the  enjoyment  of  the  afternoon  and  evening. 
Neither  pomp  nor  fashion  found  entrance  within  the  hospi- 
table halls  of  Amersley.  It  was  truly  an  English  Home,  like 
which,  seek  the  world  over,  there  is  no  other.  Affection, 
intellect,  refinement,  inspired  and  guided  employment  and 
recreation.  From  Lady  Helen  to  little  Cecil  (Lord  St.  Maur’s 
youngest  child),  from  the  Earl  himself  to  his  lowliest  retainer, 
all  seemed  infused  with  a spirit  of  happiness,  as  innocent  as  it 
was  reviving,  and  overflowing  in  uncounted  channels  of 
benevolence  for  many  miles  around.  In  this  home  enjoyment 

N 2 


180 


woman’s  priendship. 


of  the  Earl  and  Countess,  of  course,  none  hut  congenial  spirits^ 
found  admission,  and  by  all  these  was  Florence  universally 
regarded  with  that  cordial  and  heartfelt  appreciation  so 
reviving  to  one  whom  trial  and  care  had  so  long  claimed,  that 
she  often  felt  as  if  she  had  not  one  lovable  quality  remaining. 
Lady  Helen,  who  was  never  easily  pleased,  soon  learned  to  love 
her  dearly,  and  no  longer  wonder  at  the  friendship  towards 
her  which  her  daughter-in-law  had  so  unchangeably  retained. 

And  what  was  the  secret  of  this  universal  kindness  ? The 
utter  absence  of  pretension,  which  so  characterised  her 
conduct  that  she  never  for  one  moment  forgot  her  real  position,, 
or  presumed  in  the  smallest  degree  on  the  notice  she  received. 
Her  own  self-respect  had  always  taught  her  the  respect  due  to 
others ; and  perhaps  it  was  this  part  of  her  character  which 
had  so  strongly  attracted  the  regard  and  approbation  of  the 
Earl,  who  in  his  heart  of  hearts  had  once  perhaps  feared  that 
his  wife,  energetic  as  she  was,  would  scarcely  be  able  to  carry 
out  her  plans,  and  that  the  footing  on  which  she  resolved  on 
placing  Florence  in  her  establishment  would  engender  too 
much  familiarity  between  them.  He  did  not  know  the  cha- 
racter of  Florence, — Lady  St.  Maur  had  told  him,  and  she 
did,  and  that  made  all  the  difference. 

Emily  and  Alfred  Melford  were  often  amongst  the  visitors 
at  Amersley.  The  exertions  of  Lady  St.  Maur  had  all  failed 
with  regard  to  the  former.  She  had  been  too  long  the  victim 
of  inertness  with  fancied  ill-health,  to  overcome  it ; but  still 
at  Amersley  she  was  conscious  of  more  happiness,  or  rather 
less  ennui  than  anywhere  else.  Alfred  had  found  out  that  he 
was  not  quite  as  indifferent  to  a certain  Lady  Mary,  as  he 
fancied  himself,  and  therefore  when  she  was  at  Amersley, 
there  too  was  he. 

Frank  How^ard’s  political  duties  never  allowed  him  a very 
long  sojourn  at  the  Hall,  but  he  made  up  by  the  number  for 
the  shortness  of  his  visits.  Peculiarly  and  painfully  situated 
by  the  morose  character  and  anchorite  habits  of  his  father,  he 
had  endeavoured  to  forget  the  gloomy  sadness  of  his  domestic 
roof  by  embarking  all  his  energies  in  following  a brilliant  public 
career.  His  heart,  however,  was  naturally  much  too  full  of  all 
the  kindly  home  affections  for  such  a life  entirely  to  satisfy 
him ; and  he  turned  to  Lord  St.  Maur  s happy  circle  with  an 
earnest  longing  for  such  a home  himself.  Feeling  deeply  for 
his  isolated  domestic  position,  and  greatly  admiring  his  talents,. 


woman’s  fbiendship. 


181 


more  particularly  as  she  saw  that  her  husband  was  his  model 
of  manly  worth,  Frank  was  an  especial  favourite  of  the  Countess, 
who  often  spoke  of  him  to  Florence,  revealing  many  little  traits 
of  his  boyhood,  which  increased  the  interest  he  had  uncon- 
sciously inspired. 

The  reported  riches  of  his  strange  father,  all  of  which  he 
would  inherit,  had  made  him  so  courted  and  flattered  by 
match-making  mothers,  that  his  manner  towards  women 
became  as  reserved  and  cold  as  to  be  almost  a proverb,  and 
oven  at  Amersley  this  peculiarity  did  not  quite  leave  him  ; 
but  to  Florence  no  one  could  be  kinder  or  more  respectful ; 
nothing,  indeed,  to  cause  remark,  but  seeming  to  make  her 
feel  how  truly  he  respected  her  as  Florence  Leslie,  how  fully 
he  could  appreciate  her  domestic  worth  and  unpretending 
usefulness. 

Minie  Leslie’s  susceptibility  of  enjoyment  was  actually  in- 
fectious. Constituted  superintendent  of  Lady  St.  Maur’s 
village  schools — the  right  hand  of  the  venerable  clergyman 
amongst  his  poor — as  happy  the  sole  companion  of  her  mother 
as  in  the  halls  of  Amersley,  Minie’s  life  was  one  flood  of  sun- 
shine. Even  the  fond  recollection  of  Walter  could  not  cloud 
this  light ; for  if  she  were  so  happy  on  earth,  she  felt,  what 
must  he  be  in  heaven  ? 

Florence  had  often  longed  to  introduce  her  sister  to  Howard, 
but  by  a curious  combination  of  circumstances,  it  appeared  as 
if  fate  had  determined  that  they  should  not  meet.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  happiness  of  both  sisters  needed  little  of  increase ; 
but  yet  another  of  the  seeds  sown  in  sorrow  was  now  to  burst 
forth  in  joy. 


CHAPTER  XXXIIL 


FRANK  HOWARD.— YEARNINGS  FOR  AFFECTION. — THE  GIFT 
RESTORED. 


Why,  Florence,  what  correspondent  can  have  the  power  of 
making  you  look  so  disappointed?’'  asked  the  Countess  one 
evening,  as  they  retired  to  the  drawing-room  after  dinner.  It 
was  late  in  the  autumn,  and  only  the  family  were  at  the  Hall. 

Why  you  look  as  guilty  and  confused  as  if  there  were  some 
love  business  in  the  case.  I am  curious.” 

No  such  grave  business,  I assure  you,”  was  her  reply. 

I was  foolish  enough  to  hope  that  a jewel  I parted  with, 
nearly  a twelvemonth  ago,  might  be  recovered,  and  Mr.  Danvers*^ 
reply  that  he  had  long  ago  lost  all  trace  of  it,  caused  a 
painful  feeling  of  disappointment.” 

And  how  do  I know  but  that  it  is  not  an  affaire  de  coetir^ 
after  all  ? Such  a precious  jewel  can  surely  only  be  a love 
token.” 

"'No,  dear  Lady  St.  Maur,  it  was  no  token  of  love,  but  of 
friendship.  Forgive  me,  if  I seemed  to  hold  your  gift  in  little 
value ; only  to  fulfil  what  I felt  were  the  wishes  of  the  dying 
could  it  thus  have  gone.” 

" And  do  not  regret  it,  Florence ; I know  you  too  well  to 
think  you  parted  with  it  lightly.  Besides,  there  is  a spell  in 
those  emeralds,”  she  added,  laughingly  ; " know  you  not  they 
are  the  emblems  of  constancy,  and  not  only  lose  all  their 
brilliancy  if  touched  by  a faithless  hand,  but  are  dim  and  dull 
till  they  return  to  the  hand  that  gave,  or  to  the  true  heart 
that  resigns  them.  Now,  if  Danvers  sold  them  to  any  but 
the  right  person,  they  will  be  useless,  lacking  all  light  and 
lustre  ; but  if — ” 


woman’s  friendship. 


183 


She  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Lord  St.  Maur  and 
Frank  Howard,  talking  so  earnestly,  that  the  latter  did  not 
even  salute  the  Countess  till  she  spoke. 

Frank ! here  again  so  soon,  when  you  declared  Amersley 
should  not  see  you  for  two  months,  you  were  going  to  study  so 
deeply.  I wish  you  joy  of  your  perseverance ; it  is  just  one 
wxek  since  we  bade  you  farewell.  What  are  you  so  earnest 
about  ? Politics  again,  those  hateful  politics,  only  tolerated 
for  my  husband’s  sake,  though  the  wise  world  does  choose  to 
dub  me  his  prompter  and  adviser.” 

But  this  is  not  politics.  Lady  St.  Maur ; it  is  poetry,  the 
finest,  purest,  truest,  which  this  prose-loving  world  has  seen 
for  many  a long  day.  It  has  created  a greater  sensation  than 
has  been  felt  this  age ; the  more  perhaps  that  it  is  a posthu- 
mous work.  The  glorious  genius  who  has  poured  out  his 
whole  soul  on  these  pages  may  give  us  no  more.  I am  here 
fairly  from  curiosity,  for  Morton  refused  to  answer  any  in- 
quiries, referring  me  for  all  information  to  the  Earl  or  Miss 
Leslie,  to  whom  I am  the  bearer  of  a large  parcel  from  him. 
But  how  pale  you  look.  Miss  Leslie  ! you  are  ill.” 

Florence  had  indeed  sunk  back  on  her  chair,  pale  as  death ; 
but  she  gazed  on  the  book  which  Howard  almost  instinctively 
gave  her ; her  eyes  glanced  on  words  which  seemed  breathed 
in  her  ear  once  more  by  the  very  voice  of  Walter.  The  book 
fell  from  her  powerless  hold,  and  dropping  her  face  on  her 
hands,  she  burst  into  tears. 

A few  words  explained  the  apparent  mystery  to  Frank, 
whose  sympathy,  instantly  excited  at  first,  was  enraged  at  his 
own  precipitancy,  and  then  launched  into  such  an  eloquent 
narration  of  the  work’s  extraordinary  success,  of  the  interest 
felt  for  the  young  and  nameless  poet,  from  the  touching 
memoir  annexed  to  it  by  the  self-constituted  editor,  Morton  ; 
of  the  speedy  demand  which  he  was  sure  there  would  be  for 
a second  edition,  when  he  hoped  the  poet’s  name  would  not 
be  withheld ; that  those  who  had  neglected  him  in  life,  onl}^ 
because  success  had  not  crowned  his  genius,  might  know  what 
a being  they  had  scorned — that  Florence  was  enabled  to  rally 
from  her  natural  emotion,  and  listen,  with  melancholy  pleasure, 
to  Howard’s  words.  Morton’s  letter  to  herself,  and  the  several 
reviews  he  had  forwarded,  confirmed  all  the  young  man  said 
even  to  his  desire  and  intention,  with  Mrs.  Leslie’s  permission, 
of  publishing  the  next  edition  with  the  author’s  name.  The 


184 


woman’s  friendship. 


beauty  and  taste  with  which  the  work  had  been  got  up  could 
not  fail  to  strike  Florence,  and  she  almost  feared  that  Morton’s 
generous  appreciation  had  outstripped  his  judgment.  She  did 
not  know,  nor  did  she  ever  know,  that  it  was  to  the  Earl’s 
admiration  of  the  poems,  when  first  told  their  tale  by  Morton, 
that  the  work  owed  its  present  attractions  of  type  and  illus- 
trations, that  full  justice  to  the  beautiful  designs  of  the  young 
artist  might  be  done.  Eagerly,  when  Florence  retired,  did 
Frank  listen  to  Lady  St.  Maur’s  narrative  of  Walter’s  suffer- 
ings, and  his  family’s  devotion.  Reverence  for  genius  was  a 
strong  feature  in  Howard’s  character ; and  that  Florence  had 
attended  the  sufferings,  soothed  the  sorrows,  and  sympathised 
with  every  spiritual  dream,  endowed  her,  in  his  eyes,  with  a 
portion  of  the  sacredness  encircling  the  poet’s  self. 

We  will  leave  to  the  imagination  of  our  readers  the  mother’s 
feelings,  as  from  the  quivering  lips  of  Florence  on  the  following 
day  she  heard  that  a world  had  acknowledged  the  mighty 
genius  of  her  angel  boy ; a world  was  paying  homage  to  his 
name  in  death — his  name,  who  in  life  had  scarcely  found  a 
friend. 

It  was  a lovely  autumn  morning  that  Florence  returned  to 
the  Hall  from  her  mother’s  cottage,  welcoming  the  sunshine, 
as  enabling  her  to  join  her  pupils  by  their  usual  breakfast 
hour.  The  trees  were  almost  all  bare  of  leaves,  but  to  her  eye 
there  was  a charm  in  their  delicate  tracery  against  the  clear 
blue  sky,  in  the  rich  dark  green  of  the  holly,  and  here  and 
there  in  the  red  and  yellow  leaves  still  lingering  on  the  spray. 
A slight  hoar  frost  had  woven  its  network  on  some  of  the 
trees,  and  lay  in  beautiful  tracery  on  the  fresh  green  grass, 
and  a clear  stream,  swollen  by  some  heavy  rains,  laughed  and 
gurgled  in  the  sunshine,  bearing  many  a jagged  branch  and 
yellow  leaf  along  with  it.  The  air  was  fresh  and  exhilarating, 
and  Florence  walked  on  briskly,  thinking  on,  she  herself  would 
have  said,  so  many  things,  that  we  may  not  disbelieve  her, 
though  if  there  be  a mesmeric  power,  as  some  say,  to  bring 
those  on  whom  we  are  pondering  palpably  before  us,  a voice  at 
her  side  would  certainly  betray  who  it  was  that  occupied  at 
least  a portion  of  her  thoughts. 

"'You  are  an  early  riser.  Miss  Leslie.  Why,  most  people  are 
still  in  their  chambers,  if  not  on  their  couches.  The  sun  has 
only  just  peeped  out  himself” 

"Do  you  not  know  the  old  adage,  Mr.  Howard,  "An  hour 


WOMANS  FRIENDSHIP. 


185 


lost  in  the  morning  is  never  found  all  day.’  My  pupils  and  I 
must  not  abuse  Lady  St.  Maur  s indulgence  yesterday  by 
wasting  our  best  hours  to-day.  Now  you  have  no  such  weighty 
incentive,  yet  I find  you  enjoying  this  beautiful  morning 
too.” 

''  I do  enjoy  it.  The  mornings  of  the  fall  of  the  year  are 
sometimes  so  lovely  as  to  make  amends  for  the  gloomy  dusk. 
November  is  no  month  for  suicides  in  the  country,  whatever  it 
may  be  in  London.  Do  you  share  your  brother  s feelings 
on  the  subject  of  ^autumn?’”  And  he  repeated,  with  real 
pathos  and  rich  intonation,  one  of  Walter’s  most  beautiful 
poems.  A conversation  of  much  interest  naturally  followed, 
and  Florence  was  surprised,  and  almost  alarmed  at  the  pas- 
sionate earnestness  with  which,  in  allusion  to  the  love  she  and 
Walter  had  borne  each  other,  he  exclaimed,  ‘'Yes  ! in  spite  of 
all  his  sufferings,  privations,  cares,  Walter  Leslie  was  a being 
to  be  envied.  Oh  ! Miss  Leslie,  you  cannot  know  how  I yearn 
for  the  ties  of  blood,  how  my  heart  envies  all  who  bend  to  feel 
a mother’s  kiss  or  clasp  a sister’s  hand.  How  strange  it  seems 
to  me,  that  any  one  who  possesses  such  sweet  ties  should  heed, 
them  not,  and  never  think  them  blessings.  I never  knew  a 
mother’s  love ; strangers  nursed  me,  hirelings  only  loved  me ; 
in  childhood  I scarcely  knew  that  I had  a father — in  boyhood 
he  was  not  one  to  win  my  love,  and  even  had  he  been,  could 
not  have  filled  my  soul’s  deep  yearnings  for  the  gentler,  dearer 
fondness  of  a mother,  or  a sister,  to  love,  protect,  be  proud  of, 
and  to  give  me  back  all  the  love  I felt.  Your  brother  knew 
such  love.  In  the  midst  of  woe,  and  bodily  and  mental  ill,  it 
shone  around  him  like  an  angel’s  smile;  and,  oh!  I. would 
bear  his  burden,  heavy  as  it  was,  to  be  so  cherished,  so  beloved.” 

Florence  had  never  heard  Frank  revert  to  himself  before, 
even  in  his  most  unguarded  moments ; but  she  did  recollect 
once,  when  called  upon  by  the  children  to  settle  some  trifling 
dispute,  when  caressing  the  little  pouting  Cecil  into  good 
humour,  and  bidding  him  kiss  his  sister,  his  saying,  with  much 
deeper  emotion  than  the  occasion  warranted,  “ Kiss  her,  love 
her,  Cecil ; you  do  not  know  yet  what  a sister  will  be  to  you  ; 
perhaps  you  will  never  know,  for  you  may  never  feel  the  void 
which  life  is  without  one.”  And  this,  though  it  passed  little 
heeded  at  the  time,  confirmed  his  present  passionate  words. 
To  reply  was  rather  difficult ; but  Howard,  as  if  half-ashamed 
of  his  own  emotion,  talked  on  other  things,  and  so  entertain- 


186  woman’s  friendship. 

ingly,  that  the  walk  to  the  Hall  seemed  marvellously  shorter 
than  usual. 

“ Miss  Leslie,  Miss  Leslie ! ” exclaimed  a sweet  childish 
voice,  as  Florence  was  dressing  for  dinner  that  day,  and  the 
little  Ida  bounded  through  the  readily-opened  door,  mamma 
says  I am  to  give  you  this,  and  to  tell  you  that  if  you  ever 
part  with  it  mw^  these  beautiful  stones  must  grow  dim  and 
dull,  and  can  never  return  to  you  again.”  And  to  Florence’s 
extreme  surprise  she  received  from  the  eager  child  her  own 
identical  cross  and  chain. 

I know  not  if  the  legend  be  a true  one,  after  all,”  said  the 
Countess,  as  Florence,  on  joining  her,  entreated  her  only  to  tell 
her  if  that  too  had  been  one  of  the  many  witnesses  against 
her.  ‘^It  told  me  indeed  that  you  loved  me  still,  but  had 
ceased  to  trust  me ; yet  how  can  the  one  truth  be  perfect 
without  the  other.” 


Ta(je  186. 


I 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 


THE  POETRAIT  AND  ITS  COUHTEEPART. 


Feahk  JIowaed’s  deep  interest  in  Walter  naturally  led  him  to 
Mrs.  Leslie’s  cottage,  and  so  much  pleasure  did  he  find  in  his 
first  visit  that  he  repeated  it  whenever  he  came  to  the  Hall. 
By  one  of  those  curious  coincidences  which  we  sometimes  find, 
he  never  once  met  Minie,  even  at  her  mother’s  cottage,  though 
not  a little  anxious  to  do  so ; not  only  from  the  admiration 
with  which  he  always  lingered  on  her  picture,  both  in  Walter’s 
own  painting  and  in  the  frontispiece  to  his  book,  but  from  dis- 
covering that  hers  was  the  exquisite  voice  which  had  so  charmed 
him  at  Morton’s.  The  curious  chances  which  always  seemed  to 
prevent  the  best-laid  plans  for  their  introduction  to  each  other, 
became  quite  a jest  between  the  persons  concerned ; Minie 
declared  that  if  she  ever  should  meet  Mr.  How^ard,  she  should 
certainly  think  something  extraordinary  was  impending,  and 
Florence  feeling  almost  vexed  that  the  time  had  come  for  their 
leaving  Amersley  without  this  desired  introduction  having 
taken  place. 

The  respectful  deference  which  Frank  ever  manifested 
towards  Mrs.  Leslie,  his  unfeigned  admiration  of  Walter’s 
genius,  rendered  still  dearer  by  the  strong  feeling  with  which 
he  alluded  to  his  character  and  trials,  naturally  won  Mrs. 
Leslie’s  heart,  and  she  looked  forward  to  the  young  man’s 
visits  as  periods  of  enjoyment.  But  the  train  of  thought 
which  they  left  behind  them  was  as  indefinable  as  it  was  en- 
grossing. Something  in  his  countenance  seemed  to  rest  upon 
her  memory  as  having  been  seen  before,  yet  indistinctly,  as 
the  vision  of  a dream.  Just  before  Lord  St.  Maur  and  his 
family’s  departure  for  London,  Howard  had  come  as  usual, 
staying  perhaps  the  longer,  as  he  thought  it  would  be  several 


188 


woman’s  fhiendship. 


months  before  he  should  be  in  that  part  of  England  again, 
when  he  hoped,  he  said,  with  a smile,  that  the  spell  upon  his 
meeting  Minie  would  be  broken,  and  they  would  be  personally 
us  intimate  as  he  felt  they  were  in  all  else  already.  He  con- 
versed for  some  time  with  even  more  than  wonted  animation, 
und  when  he  left  her,  Mrs.  Leslie  remained  buried  in  thought, 
which  thronged  upon  her  most  mysteriously,  yet  more  incon- 
gruous than  usual.  Suddenly  a flash  seemed  to  illumine  their 
darkness,  but  with  a light  too  painful  to  be  borne. 

It  cannot  be,”  she  involuntarily  exclaimed  aloud,  cannot 
be,  or  if  there  be  indeed  similarity,  it  must  be  only  accidental. 
The  expression  is  so  different,  as  unlike  as  an  angel  to  a fiend, 
und  yet  the  outline  of  the  face,  the  features  themselves,  these 
ure  alike,  it  is  vain  to  deny  it ; but  the  name,  the  title,  they 
were  not  his,  even  in  perspective.  No,  no,  the  thought  is 
folly  ; there  can  be  no  danger  to  the  child — the  very  likeness 
is  unlike.” 

But  the  thought  would  return,  perhaps  more  perseveringly 
from  the  depression  occasioned  by  the  parting  from  Florence, 
for  some  months’  residence  in  London. 

The  political  duties  of  the  Earl  took  him  up  to  town  rather 
before  what  is  called  the  season ; but  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  the  great  city  appeared  almost  as  agreeable  a residence  to 
Florence  as  the  country.  The  Countess  seemed  determined 
she  should  see  it  in  other  colouring  than  that  of  care  and 
sorrow ; and  its  magazines  of  art  and  science,  its  galleries, 
where  painting  and  sculpture  marked  the  , progress  of  British 
genius — its  various  avenues  to  literature  and  music — its  in- 
teresting antiquities,  and  associations  with  men  of  genius  of 
the  past,  and  as  well  as  of  the  present — all  were  revealed  to 
the  eyes  and  mind  of  Florence,  and  found  her  willing  and 
rejoicing  to  acknowledge  that  there  was  much  indeed  in  the 
capital  of  her  country  to  call  for  admiration  and  reverence 
from  the  hearts  of  her  sons.  She  saw,  too,  that  influence  and 
benevolence  were  not  to  be  confined  to  life  in  the  country, 
that  to  do  good  was  not,  as  Emily  Melford  had  once  solemnly 
assured  her,  incompatible  with  a London  life.  In  her  youth 
the  Lady  Ida  Villiers  had  been  taught  by  a judicious  father 
those  fearful  abuses  which  are  now  made  the  subject  of  so 
many  able  pens,  but  which,  twenty  years  ago,  were  scarcely 
known  beyond  the  range  of  the  sufferers  themselves.  An  en- 
lightened politician,  because  a true  patriot  himself,  the  late 


woman’s  friendship. 


18» 

Lord  Edgemere  had  made  it  his  business  to  become  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  the  sufferings  of  the  working-poor,  had  asso- 
ciated his  daughter  with  his  practical  benevolence,  which  was 
extending  widely  even  at  the  very  time  that  his  theory  was 
considered  by  his  compeers  as  but  the  delusions  of  a fever 
dream.  Edmund  St.  Maur  had  imbibed  these  visionary  pro- 
jects, and  now  he  and  his  Countess  worked  hand-in-hand  for 
the  amelioration  of  those  over-tasked  and  suffering  classes,  of 
whose  very  existence  Emily  Melford,  and  very  many  besides 
herself,  were  wholly  ignorant.  At  the  period  of  our  tale,  seven 
years  ago,  such  benevolence  was  confined  to  some  few  en- 
lightened and  noble-minded  individuals.  How  rejoicingly 
must  the  philanthropist  regard  the  march  of  time,  as  associated 
with  the  amelioration  of  his  species,  when  he  reflects  on  tho 
spirit  working  now,  that  the  social  evils,  invisible  and  im- 
palpable before,  are  now  rising  before  men’s  eyes  and  minds, 
rendered  strong  and  mighty,  far-spreading  in  their  appeal  for 
redress  and  removal,  alike  by  the  pen  of  genius  and  the  ex- 
ertions of  the  good.  In  these  views,  and  in  their  practice,  as- 
in  everything  else,  the  Countess  St.  Maur  associated  Florence 
as  a friend  capable  not  only  of  assisting,  but  of  understanding 
and  sympathising  in  them.  Innumerable  little  things  proved 
to  her  grateful  heart  that  the  Countess  indeed  spoke  as  she 
felt,  when  she  assured  her  that  she  could  leave  home  with  a 
heart  as  light  again  as  the  last  season,  for  she  knew  her  place 
was  so  faithfully  supplied,  both  to  her  mother  and  her  children; 
often  concluding,  with  a very  mischievous  smile,  If  you 
should  ever  marry,  Florence,  what  shall  I do  ? If  the  gentle- 
man be  not  exactly  what  I approve,  I shall  refuse  my  consent, 
depend  upon  it.”  And  Florence  would  declare  she  need  be 
under  no  fear,  for  she  was  much  too  happy  as  she  was  ever  to 
think  of  marrying.  Nor  did  she  think  of  it ; the  idea  of  love, 
she  believed,  had  never  entered  her  mind  ; not  dreaming  that 
the  peculiar  pleasure  she  felt  in  the  society  of  one  individual 
could  proceed  from  such  a source.  Love  ! she  smiled  at  the 
bare  idea.  How  could  she,  a portionless,  unattractive  girl, 
ever  dream  of  being  loved  ? and  unless  love  were  offered,  how 
could  she  return  it  ? And  so  she  mingled  amongst  the  select 
circle  of  Lady  St.  Maur  s intimate  friends,  who  always  proffered 
her  the  gratification  of  attention  and  appreciation,  which  the 
Countess  insisted  on  her  accepting ; mingled  with  them,  as  she 
believed,  love-proof,  pleasing  and  willing  to  be  pleased  ; but. 


190  woman’s  friendship. 

as  she  imagined,  neither  attracting  nor  feeling  any  stronger 
emotion. 

Meanwhile  a second  edition  had  been  called  for  of  Walter’s 
poems,  and  his  name  being  now  universally  known,  Florence 
had  often  the  melancholy  gratification  of  receiviD.g  kindness 
and  attention  for  his  sake,  from  those  whose  mind  and  heart 
could  appreciate  the  genius  gone.  More  than  once  she  found 
herself  unconsciously  searching  for  the  original  of  that  lovely 
portrait,  which  revealed  the  object  of  his  secret,  but  all- 
engrossing  love.  His  fragments  of  thought  had  disclosed  that 
he  loved  one  so  far  above  him  that  they  could  never  be  united, 
and  that  he  had  loved  unknown,  unsuspected  by  its  object. 
The  portrait  had  riveted  the  face  upon  her  memory,  but  she 
searched  for  its  living  counterpart  in  vain. 

Can  it  be  that  the  theory  of  the  ancients  has  some  faint 
shadowing  of  truth — that  souls  are  sent  on  the  earth  in  pairs, 
and  wander  lonely  and  sorrowing  on  their  diverse  paths,  till 
their  kindred  essence  again  is  found,  and  their  union  on  earth 
is  the  faint  shadow  of  the  bliss  awaiting  them  in  heaven  ? 
That  therefore  is  it  there  are  sorrow  and  anguish  in  unrequited, 
aye,  and  often  in  requited  love,  for  seldom  is  it  the  souls  paired 
in  heaven  are  joined  on  earth.  Love  may  be  felt,  but 
oceans  and  deserts,  or  the  yet  wider  barriers  of  poverty  and 
wealth,  may  stretch  between  the  two  souls  yearning  for  each 
other,  and  thus  they  clothe  another  with  the  unanswered 
light  gleaming  for  their  own,  and  therefore  is  it  that  some 
unions,  seeming  of  love,  fade  into  indifference  and  neglect ; 
but  when  wedded  life  is  such  joy  that  the  love  felt  before 
marriage  is  as  nothing,  compared  to  the  deep  affection  after- 
wards, brightening  more  and  more  into  the  perfect  day,  through 
lingering  years  and  their  varying  ordeals,  each  soul  has  found 
its  kindred  soul,  and  they  are  one  again  for  ever.  Can  this  be  ? 
Who  on  earth  may  answer  ? 

Miss  Leslie,”  said  Sir  Charles  Brashleigh,  one  day,  as  he 
was  partaking  the  Earl’s  family  dinner,  have  made  a promise 
in  your  name  which  I depend  on  your  goodness  to  fulfil.  It  is 
to  accompany  me  on  a visit  to  a young  patient,  who,  I greatly 
fear,  is  fast  sinking  from  decline,  the  primary  cause  of  which  is 
hidden  in  mystery.  Your  brother’s  poems  are  never  out  of 
her  hands,  often  occasioning  such  emotion,  that  I have  threat- 
ened to  refuse  her  the  luxury  of  reading  them ; but  it  is  only 
a threat,  and  she  knows  it,  for  no  earthly  emotion  can  harm 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


191 


her  now,  poor  girl ! I cannot  help  believing  there  has  been 
some  ill-fated  love  at  work,  undermining  her  health  ; but  her 
family  declare  it  to  be  utterly  impossible.  She  was  scarcely 
introduced  into  society  before  she  became  ill.  I asked  her  one 
day  if  she  felt  any  wish  to  know  the  family  of  the  poet,  whose 
genius  she  admired  so  much.  Her  cheek  quite  flushed  with 
the  eagerness  of  her  assent ; and  turning  to  the  frontispiece,  I 
told  her  all  I knew  about  it,  and  how  fondly  the  poet  had  been 
loved  by  his  family,  asking  her  which  of  his  sisters  she  most 
wished  to  see.  Her  face  had  been  turned  from  me,  and  when 
she  looked  up  again,  I was  terrified  at  its  ghastly  whiteness, 
and  the  strange  quivering  of  her  lips  before  she  could  speak  ; 
she  pointed  on  the  figure  I had  said  was  yours,  and  faintly 
articulated,  'The  one  you  say  is  Florence — she  was  older,  could 
love  him  best,  and  he  so  loved  her.’  And  so  I promised — was 
I right  T 

" Oh  yes.  Sir  Charles,  I will  go  with  you  with  pleasure ; if 
she  can  so  love  my  Walter  in  his  poems,  I need  no  more  to 
love  and  feel  for  her.” 

Sir  Charles  thanked  her  with  a kindly  nod,  and  the 
Countess  inquired  who  his  patient  was. 

" The  youngest  daughter  of  Sir  William  Lennox,  the 
head,  although  the  passive  one,  of  some  large  mercantile 
house  connected  with  the  India  House,  incalculably  rich,  and 
a man  much  sought  after  ; his  wife  was  some  lady  of  rank, 
and  he  looks  to  his  daughters  making,  what  is  called,  capital 
matches.  It  will  be  a sad  visit.  Miss  Leslie ; but  I know  your 
land  heart  will  not  regret  it,  if  it  can  give  her  any 
satisfaction.” 

Florence  assured  him  she  should  not,  and  the  Earl 
added — 

" By  the  way,  Florence,  was  it  not  in  some  such  office  that 
your  poor  brother  laboured  so  incessantly?  Have  I not 
heard  you  say  it  had  to  do  with  the  India  trade  ?” 

"Yes;  but  I never  heard  him  mention  Sir  William 
Lennox ; I rather  think  Meynard  was  the  name  of  his 
principal  employer.” 

" That  may  be,  and  yet  it  may  be  the  same  concern,  as  Sir 
William  is  seldom  or  never  known  or  seen  by  his  junior 
clerks.” 

Interested  in  Sir  Charles’s  narrative,  Florence  did  not 
notice  this  remark.  The  admiration  excited  by  her  brother’s 


192 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


poems  was  so  general,  that  there  was  nothing  remarkable  in  a 
young  and  suffering  girl  lingering  on  their  pages  till  she  felt 
her  own  soul  reflected  in  them ; and  her  belief  that  Walter’s 
love  was  as  unreturned  as  it  was  unknown,  prevented  any 
association  of  the  portrait  and  Sir  Charles’s  tale. 

The  following  day  Sir  Charles  called  for  her.  She  was 
received  kindly  by  the  family,  and  after  a brief  delay,  con- 
ducted to  the  chamber  of  the  young  invalid.  Could  it  be  ? 
Florence  started  in  undisguised  astonishment ; that  face — that 
lovely  face,  with  its  faint,  beautiful  rose,  its  waving  curls  of 
paly  gold,  through  w^hich  the  brow  gleamed  forth  like  ivory, 
as  pure  and  stainless,  she  knew  it  at  a glance.  Strange — 
mysterious  as  it  seemed,  here  lay  the  lovely  idol  of  the  poet’s 
dreams  ; and  those  impassioned  dreams  were  in  her  hand, 
were  treasured  next  her  heart.  The  deep  violet  orbs,  almost 
black,  from  their  long  dark  fringes,  fixed  their  full  earnest 
gaze  on  Florence,  as  she  entered,  and  the  hectic  deepened  on 
her  cheek,  but  she  eagerly  extended  her  hand,  and  faintly 
murmured — 

''  This  was  kind,  kind  indeed,  to  come  to  me  so  promptly  ; 
Sir  Charles,  will  you  add  to  your  kindness,  and  permit  me  to 
be  alone  with  Miss  Leslie  ? You  know  I cannot  bear  many 
around  me,  and  they  spoil  me  by  indulging  me  in  everything. 

And  so  I suppose  I must  in  this.  Miss  Lucy.  Well,  well, 
be  it  so.  I will  call  for  Miss  Leslie  in  an  hour.’’ 

And  so  saying,  he  departed.  Florence  had  spoken  some 
kindly  words ; but  for  several  minutes  after  Sir  Charles  had 
disappeared,  the  poor  invalid  kept  her  hand  on  Florence’s  arm, 
looking  sadly  and  inquiringly  in  her  face;  at  length  she 
murmured — 

You  are  not  like  him ; I hoped  you  would  be.  Yet  he 
loved  you,  and  Sir  Charles  has  told  me  how  you  loved  him. 
Oh,  Miss  Leslie  ! bear  with  me  ; do  not  scorn  me  as  a poor, 
weak,  degraded  girl.  You  are  his  sister,  and  he  is  gone  ; 
there  can  be  no  shame,  no  sin;  I could  not  whisper  it  to 
others,  they  could  not  understand  me  ; perhaps  they  would 
upbraid  me,  or  think  ill  of  him  ; and,  oh  ! death  were  better 
than  that.  You  think  I am  raving,  delirious ; oh,  no  ! no  ! 
I am  not.  They  call  it  decline,  mere  bodily  disease,  but  it  is 
not  ; my  heart  is  broken,  and  all — all  for  love  of  him  !” 

Whispered  as  the  words  were,  their  agonised  tone  thrilled  to 
the  heart  of  Florence,  who  had  thrown  herself  on  her  knees 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


193 


‘beside  the  couch,  and  was  pressing  tearful  kisses  on  the  damp 
brow,  which  had  sought  its  resting-place  on  her  bosom,  as  if 
the  words  had  burst  forth  involuntarily,  and  left  her  ex- 
hausted from  their  violence. 

You  weep,’’  she  said,  at  length,  as  she  felt  the  hot  tears 
of  Florence  fall  fast  upon  her  cheek;  bless,  bless  you  for 
those  tears ; I thought  my  heart  would  wear  its  iron  chain 
of  secrecy  to  the  grave  ; but  when  Sir  Charles  spoke  of  you 
and  all  that  you  had  borne  and  felt  for  love  of  him,  my  whole 
soul  yearned  to  pour  forth  its  tale  to  you.  Did  he  never  tell 
you  theie  was  a time  when,  from  the  high  character  his 
employers  gave  him,  my  father  had  him,  day  after  day,  in  our 
house  in  London  to  transact  some  private  business  ? and  daily 
I saw  him,  for  I was  privileged,  and  wherever  my  father  was, 
his  petted  Lucy  was  at  his  side,  and  I looked  on  his  face, 
I listened  to  his  thrilling  voice,  and  I felt  and  knew  his  hidden 
genius;  he  haunted  me  night  and  day,  but  I knew  not,  guessed 
not  how  powerfully,  till  months  passed,  and  I saw  him  not 
again,  and  the  longing  grew  stronger  and  stronger,  till  my  soul 
was  sick,  and  my  strength  failed  ; and  yet  I dared  not  speak 
it,  for  neither  look  nor  word  betrayed  that  he  had  ever 
thought  of  me  ; and  then  they  told  me  he  was  ill,  ill  almost 
unto  death,  and  never  came  to  his  office  again.  And  whom 
could  I ask  of  him  ? And  months  waned,  and  no  one  guessed 
why  both  my  health  and  spirits  sunk  till  they  laid  me  here. 
Yet  still  it  seemed  I hoped,  and  then  they  placed  this  volume 
in  my  hand,  and  I traced  his  form ! Aye,  indistinct  as  to 
others  that  sketch  may  be,  to  me  it  was  clear,  vivid, 
expressive  as  life  ; and  I knew  that  the  poems  were  his  work. 
But  that  preface — did  it  tell  his  fate  I dared  not  think  it ; 
yet  it  froze  my  very  life-blood.  And  there  was  no  rest,  no 
sleep,  till  my  father  prevailed  on  Morton  to  tell  the  poet’s  name, 
and  it  was  his.  Oh,  God  ! the  death-stroke  of  that  hour  1” 

She  broke  effi  abruptly,  and  Florence  felt  her  slight  frame 
quiver,  as  if  convulsed  with  inward  agony  ; for  several  minutes 
she  found  not  words  to  answer  ; at  length — 

‘‘Would  it  be  joy  to  think  that  love  returned?”  she  said, 
with  soothing  tenderness ; “ alas,  sweet  one ! he  loved  thee, 
too  well.” 

Lucy  sprang  from  her  recumbent  posture,  gazing  on  that 
gentle,  pitying  face,  as  if  to  penetrate  its  truth,  and  almost 
inarticulately  exclaimed — 


0 


194 


woman’s  friendship. 


Could  I think  so  ! dared  I think  so  ! oh,  what  unutterable 
joy ! But  say  it,  say  it  again ; it  is  not  only  to  soothe,  to 
console,  say  that  he  loved  me  !” 

And  briefly  and  tenderly  Florence  told  all  she  knew,  and 
how  she  had  traced  the  original  of  his  treasured  portrait,  the 
moment  she  beheld  her.  The  poor  girl  heard,  and  a burst  of 
passionate  tears  succeeded,  and  then  a calm  so  deep,  so  still,, 
it  was  as  if  the  soul  were  already  separating  from  the  body. 

Joy,  joy  for  me  !”  were  her  parting  words  to  Florence,  and 
though  the  voice  was  one  of  utter  exhaustion,  her  eyes  seemed 
to  dance  in  the  light  of  rapture  ; joy,  such  joy  ! there  are  no 
cold  barriers  to  love  in  heaven.  ^ Walter  will  be  mine  there,. 
all  mine — oh,  joy  !” 

And  from  that  hour,  though  she  sank  rapidly,  the  depression 
of  spirits,  the  irritability  of  disease  entirely  subsided.  There 
was  ever  a bright  smile  on  her  fading  lip,  a glittering  joyousness 
in  her  deep  blue  eye  ; and  so  after  a few,  a very  few  weeks,  she 
passed  away  from  earth,  and  none  knew  the  wherefore  of  that 
early  death,  none  knew  the  secret  of  her  love,  for  Florence  felt 
it  a theme  too  hallowed  for  mortal  ear.  Death  had  consecrated 
its  memory  in  her  own  heart,  but  its  knowledge  seemed  to 
remove  every  wish  that  Walter  could  return  to  earth.  If  there 
be  such  love  in  this  cold  perishable  world,  where  bliss  has  no 
foundation  but  the  receding  sand,  and  love  is  born  but  to  die, 
oh,  what  must  be  love  in  heaven ! Is  there  one  longing  within 
us  for  the  good,  the  pure,  the  infinite,  that  is  implanted,  not 
to  be  fulfilled  ? Has  He  made  all  things  for  good,  yet  left  to 
dust  and  ashes  the  purest,  noblest  feelings  in  the  heart  of  man  ? 
No,  no.  Every  silent  whisper  in  the  heart  breathes  of  immor- 
tality, and  dearer,  more  durable  than  all  others  is  the  voice 
of  LOVE. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 


PPtIBE  OF  BIRTH. — THE  SUMMONS. — DEATH  OF  MRS.  LESLIE. 


What  is  the  matter,  Frank ? you  look  perfectly  egare','  in- 
quired Lady  St.  Maur,  as  that  gentleman  joined  them  one 
morning  in  the  library.  Florence  chanced  that  day  to  be  one 
of  the  reading  party.  Any  shock  between  your  idols — State 
and  Senate  ? If  so,  the  more  play  for  your  powers  of  eloquent 
oratory.” 

‘^No,  no.  Lady  St.  Maur;  no  public  mischance,  or  your 
husband  would  have  been  the  first  to  tell  you.  I wonder 
you  have  not  heard  of  the  domestic  tragedy  wLich  has  so 
startled  me.” 

‘‘  Tragedy !”  repeated  the  Earl ; ‘^my  good  fellow,  what  do 
you  mean?” 

Something  very  dreadful,  by  his  looks.  Come,  Frank, 
have  pity  on  our  curiosity  ; what  is  it — suicide  for  love,  or  a 
duel — an  elopement,  or  something  more  startling  still  ?” 

‘‘Nay,  Lady  St.  Maur,  it  has  fairly  choked  me  out  of  all 
jesting.  Have  you  heard  nothing  of  the  expose  in  the  Belmont 
family  ?” 

“Not  I ; I have  not  seen  Mary  or  Emily  for  the  last  week, 
and  I only  hear  anything  of  gossip  from  them.  What  of  Lady 
Belmont  ? I always  imagined  her  one  of  the  happiest  persons 
in  this  great  aristocratic  world,  and  just  now  particularly  ; one 
of  her  daughters  is  engaged  to  such  an  excellent  young  man  !” 

“ Do  speak  out,  Frank,”  urged  the  Earl.  “ What  can  you 
have  to  say  about  her,  which  seems  so  loath  to  leave  your  lips  ? 
Is  she  less  happy  than  Ida  thinks  ?” 

“ Happy  1 good  heavens,  my  lord ! how  she  can  ever  have 
seemed  happy,  I know  not  : she  is  not  Lord  Belmont  s wife  !” 

0 2 


196 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


Not  his  wife  ! then  who  in  the  world  is  she  exclaimed 
the  Countess,  quite  unconscious  of  the  real  meaning  of  his 
words  ; but  in  an  instant,  cheek,  brow,  even  all  that  was  visible 
of  her  delicate  throat,  became  dyed  with  glowing  crimson,  and 
she  continued,  indignantly,  It  must  be  all  scandal,  Frank 
— the  basest,  most  unfounded.” 

I wish  it  were  ; but,  unhappily,  it  is  a confessed  fact  now. 
Some  one  whispered  it  to  Arlington,  and  of  course  he  denied 
it ; vowed  that  it  was  false,  and  went  straight  to  Belmont  him- 
'self,  declaring  he  must  relinquish  all  claim  to  Miss  Belmont’s 
hand,  unless  her  father  gave  him  some  positive  assurance  of 
the  falsity  of  the  charge.  Lord  Belmont  equivocated,  and 
tried  hard  to  throw  him  off  the  scent,  when,  to  the  utter 
horror  of  both  parties,  the  Baroness  threw  herself  at  Arlington’s 
feet,  as  if  to  implore  his  mercy — tried  to  speak,  and  fell  to  the 
ground  in  strong  convulsions.  The  whole  was  of  course  dis- 
covered, and  Gerald,  in  a state  of  desperation,  is  gone  to  the 
Continent,  resigning  all  his  pretensions,  and  his  union  with 
such  a family  is  at  an  end  for  ever  1” 

‘^The  poor  unhappy  girl!”  ejaculated  Florence,  with  the 
most  unfeigned  commiseration. 

“ But  what  could  he  do.  Miss  Leslie  ?”  Frank  spoke  with 
even  more  than  his  usual  energy.  ‘'Could  a man  of  honour,  of 
reputation,  unite  himself  with  one  of  such  dishonourable  birth  ? 
Could  he,  with  the  least  particle  of  feeling  either  for  himself 
or  his  children,  have  acted  otherwise  ?” 

“ It  is  too  dreadful  either  to  argue  or  think  upon,”  replied 
Florence ; “ but  it  seems  so  hard,  so  cruel,  that  the  innocent 
should  thus  suffer  for  the  guilty.” 

“ It  is  so,  yet  it  is  only  right,”  replied  Lord  St.  Maur. 
“Were  it  otherwise,  remorse  might  for  ever  sleep,  and  guilt 
itself  receive  no  check.  Miss  Belmont,  indeed,  demands  our 
commiseration,  but  poor  Arlington  not  less  so.” 

“ He  is  much  less  to  be  pitied,  than  had  this  denouement 
taken  place  after  his  marriage,”  rejoined  Howard.  “ I call  him 
a fortunate  fellow,  in  spite  of  all.” 

“ My  dear  Frank,  you  speak  as  if  you  had  no  sympathy 
whatever  with  his  feelings  towards  his  betrothed  : can  they  be 
conquered  in  an  hour,  think  you  ?” 

“ Perhaps  not.  Were  I in  his  place,  I should  be  too  grate- 
ful for  my  escape  from  such  ignominy  to  retain  any  other 
emotion.” 


woman’s  friendship.  197 

“ ‘ He  jests  at  scars  who  never  felt  a wound/  ” replied  Lord 
St.  Maur,  half  smiling.  Frank  became  more  earnest. 

Indeed,  my  lord,  I mean  what  I say ; the  more  I loved, 
the  more  determined  should  I be  upon  an  everlasting  sepa- 
ration in  such  a case.  Could  I bear  one  stigma  to  fling  the 
faintest  shadow  on  the  being  I had  chosen,  or  on  any  one 
belonging  to  her  ? The  veriest  torture  of  unconquered  love 
would  be  preferable  to  such  continued  fear ; so  heaven  preserve 
me  from  such  an  ill-fated  attachment ! ” 

^‘Amen!  for  notwithstanding  the  harsh  sound  of  your 
words,  they  have  but  too  much  truth  in  them/’  replied  the 
Countess. 

I will  not  argue  on  their  justice  or  injustice,  for  the  sub- 
ject is  too  painful : dismiss  it,  pray,  and  tell  us  something 
more  w^orth  hearing;  I hate  the  very  whisper  of  such 
themes.” 

And  so  do  we,  gentle  reader ; and  had  not  this  conversa- 
tion, trifling  as  it  seems,  been  absolutely  necessary  for  the 
clear  elucidation  of  some  future  portions  of  our  tale,  we 
should  have  dismissed  it  altogether. 

Who  amongst  us  has  not  felt  at  one  period  or  another  of 
our  mortal  career  the  truth  of  Moore’s  beautiful  lines  ? — 


“ There  is  a dread  in  all  delight, 

A shadow  near  each  ray, 

That  bids  us  then  to  fear  their  flight 
When  most  we  wish  their  stay.” 

A sort  of  quivering  happiness,  which  carries  us  for  the  time 
out  of  ourselves,  sheds  a sudden  glow  of  joy  over  the  simplest 
things — bids  us  tread  the  earth  as  if  it  had  no  care  nor  shade 
— fills  the  heart  with  a kind  of  elastic  buoyancy — makes  the 
eye  dance  in  its  light,  the  voice  become  song  in  its  childlike 
glee  ; and  yet  in  the  midst  of  this,  an  under-current  of 
sadness  makes  itself  heard  for  a brief  moment,  whispering, 
‘'This  cannot  last;  banish  it  ere  it  bring  woe,”  and  then, 
again,  it  is  lost  in  the  voice  of  joy ; nor  is  it  recalled,  till  some 
sudden  grief  quenches  the  brilliant  light,  and  we  feel  that 
intense  happiness  has  but  cradled  sorrow. 

For  the  comparatively  long  period  of  one  month,  Florence 
was  under  the  influence  of  this  strange  joyousness : even 
during  its  continuance  she  felt  it  unnatural ; but,  in  spite  of 
all  her  efforts,  she  could  not  dim  the  sparkling  current  in 


198 


woman’s  FPtlENDSHIP. 


which  life  flowed  by  : she  could  not  define  its  source  ; perhaps 
she  did  not  ask  herself,  content  alone  to  feel.  Every  day 
seemed  in  itself  a little  age  of  joy.  Her  pleasures  of  the 
evening  were  enhanced  by  the  recollection  of  duties  satisfac- 
torily accomplished  in  the  morning ; the  duties  of  the  morning 
sweetened  by  the  memory  of  some  kindness,  some  appreciation, 
or  some  intellectual  improvement  of  the  previous  evening  ; 
and  even  a dance  could  be  enjoyed  with  the  elasticity  and 
zest  of  former  years.  Her  letters  from  home  heightened  this 
enjoyment.  Mrs.  Leslie  had  been  more  than  unusually  suf- 
fering, but  the  last  six  weeks  had  seemed  so  wonderfully  well, 
that  she  could  even  walk  to  the  Hall  to  superintend  some  new 
arrangements  which  Lady  St.  Maur  wished  completed.  Her 
very  precarious  health,  the  consciousness  that  the  disease 
under  which  she  laboured  was  indeed  incurable,  had  always 
been  present  to  the  imagination  of  Florence,  ever  preventing 
happiness  from  being  perfect ; but  now  even  this  seemed  to 
have  lost  its  dread.  She  could  not  realize  anxiety,  though 
she  actually  sought  it,  so  fully  convinced  did  she  feel  that 
this  unnatural  happiness  could  not  last,  and  actually  longing 
for  some  slight  “ shadow  near  the  ray  ” to  prevent  some 
greater  woe.  It  was,  perhaps,  a superstitious  feeling,  but  who 
has  not  known  its  influence  ? 

On  reporting  Mrs.  Leslie’s  wonderfully  improved  health  to 
Sir  Charles  Brashleigh,  he  looked  so  grave  that  the  Countess 
became  alarmed ; and  when  Florence  had  left  them,  he  avowed 
that  he  did  not  like  the  accounts.  In  a disease  like  Mrs. 
Leslie’s,  such  sudden  improvements  but  too  often  predicted 
either  a fearful  increase  of  suffering,  or  its  termination. 
Cautiously  and  tenderly  Lady  St.  Maur,  in  consequence, 
entreated  Florence  not  to  build  too  much  on  the  continuance 
of  Mrs.  Leslie’s  present  health,  proposing  that  she  should  go 
down  and  spend  a week  with  her  mother,  that  she  might  judge 
of  her  herself,  and  advise  her  from  Sir  Charles  not  to  tax  her 
new-found  strength  too  much.  Florence  eagerly  assented, 
promising,  however,  to  wait  quietly  till  the  morrow’s  post. 

Anxiety  thus  aroused  no  longer  eluded  her  grasp,  and  she 
counted  the  hours  till  the  morning’s  post  should  come  in, 
turning  almost  sick  with  suspense  ; yet  failing  in  strength  to 
make  any  inquiry,  even  w^hen  she  knew  the  hour  had  come  and 
past,  and  no  letter  had  been  brought  to  her  as  usual.  Npt 
ten  minutes  afterwards  the  Countess  entered,  and  one  glance 


woman’s  friendship.  199 

on  her  face  sufficed  for  Florence  to  sink  back  powerless  on  her 
chair. 

''You  shall  set  off  directly,  dearest.  Do  not  look  so 
alarmed.  Your  mother  has  had  a return  of  her  old  attacks, 
and  rather  more  violently  than  usual;  but  it  may  pass  off 
again,  as  it  has  often  done.  My  dear  Florence,  do  not  let 
strength  fail  you  now.” 

" But  why  has  not  Minie  written  to  me  as  usual  ? Some- 
thing dreadful  has  occurred.  Oh ! Lady  St.  Maur,  in  pity  do 
not  hide  it  from  me ; I can  better  bear  it  than  suspense.” 

" Minie  was  too  anxious,  my  love.  You  know  she  is  very 
young  to  endure  anything  like  care.  Will  you  promise  me  to 
try  and  be  calm,  and  not  magnify  evil  if  I let  you  read  this 
letter  ? Ferrers  feared  to  alarm  you,  and  so  very  wisely  wrote 
to  me.” 

Florence  grasped  the  letter,  struggling  to  suppress  the 
hysterical  emotion  which  almost  choked  her  as  she  read.  Her 
mother,  it  appeared,  had  not  only  exerted  herself  more  than 
usual,  in  walking  to  and  from  the  Hall,  but  had  also  employed 
several  hours  in  writing  ; an  exercise  generally  painful.  The 
night  before,  Ferrers  stated  that  she  had  left  her  mistress  at 
her  desk,  and  retired  to  her  own  room  adjoining.  How  long 
she  slept  she  did  not  know,  but  it  seemed  some  hours,  when 
she  was  awakened  by  a heavy  fall.  Startled  and  terrified,  she 
rushed  into  Mrs.  Leslie’s  room,  and  found  her  extended 
motionless  and  perfectly  insensible,  on  the  floor.  Several 
papers  were  scattered  on  the  table,  and  the  pen  was  still  wet 
with  ink.  The  fit  had  lasted  several  hours  ; and  though  she 
had  rallied  a little,  and  appeared  sensible  of  surrounding 
objects,  and  Minie’s  intense  grief,  every  effort  to  speak  had 
been  unavailing,  or  merely  produced  unintelligible  murmurs. 
Ferrers  concluded  by  expressing  her  own  fears  that  she  was 
sinking  rapidly. 

Florence  indeed  took  in  the  sense  of  this  hurried  letter,  but 
all  seemed  enveloped  in  mist,  she  afterwards  said,  until  she 
found  herself  standing  by  her  mother’s  bedside  : but  when 
there,  the  sight  of  that  dear  face,  so  wan,  so  altered,  seeming 
as  if  already  fixed  in  death,  the  sudden  change  overspreading 
her  features,  as  her  dim  eye  caught  sight  of  her  child,  the 
convulsive  effort  for  speech,  all  fixed  themselves  indelibly  on 
her  memory ; though  at  the  time  Florence  could  only  sink  on 
her  knees  beside  her,  and  bury  her  face  in  the  bedclothes. 


200 


woman’s  feiendship. 


There  was  still  motion  in  that  death-like  form,  one  hand 
moved  languidly,  as  if  to  rest  on  her  child’s  lowly  bent  head, 
and  it  seemed  to  the  sisters  as  if  that  treasured  voice  breathed 
articulately,  Florence,  my  beloved,  bless — ” Florence  started 
to  her  feet,  and  bending  over  the  dying,  imprinted  kiss  after 
kiss  on  her  lip,  brow,  and  cheek,  compelling  herself  to  com- 
posure, even  while  her  limbs  shook  as  if  they  must  fail  beneath 
her. 

Mrs.  Leslie  evidently  strove  to  speak,  but  her  voice  was  so 
changed  as  scarcely  to  be  intelligible.  ''  My  child,  burn — 
forget — my  own,  my  own — oh  God ! bless,  bless  both  my 
children  ! ” she  murmured,  with  other  words,  meaningless  and 
strange  to  those  that  heard  them.  But  why  should  we  linger 
on  this  scene  of  suffering  ? Life  appeared  struggling  with 
death  to  permit  the  utterance  of  something,  that  would  not 
leave  those  lips,  and  death  was  conqueror  ; for  ere  morning 
dawned  all  was  awful  stillness  in  that  heart  and  frame. 


CHAPTER  XXXVL 


THE  PAPERS. — THE  BEQUEST. 


The  first  month  of  their  sad  bereavement  was  spent  by  the 
sisters  in  mournful  seclusion,  endeavouring  to  obtain  resignation 
and  strength.  Theirs  had  been  a more  than  common  trial ; 
for  death  had  come  darkly  and  terribly.  Florence  could  not 
conquer  the  fancy  that  her  poor  mother  had  sulfered  not  alone 
physically,  but  from  the  agonizing  wish  to  say  something,  for 
which  she  had  not  power.  The  dying  look  haunted  her,  the 
expression  of  those  dear  eyes,  which  even  in  death  remained 
open,  till  her  own  hand  closed  them,  seemed  to  linger  on  her 
full  of  pity,  of  love,  and  yet  beseechingly,  as  if  they  asked 
that  which  her  lips  were  powerless  to  do.  Oh  ! how  she 
longed  that  that  voice  had  addressed  them  in  its  own  loved 
tone  once,  but  once,  ere  it  w^as  hushed  for  ever. 

To  Minie  the  horror  of  that  death  was  such,  she  could  not 
rally  from  its  recollection.  Nervous  tremors  continually  dis- 
turbed her  night  and  day.  She  tried  to  conquer  her  feelings, 
and  Florence  did  all  that  soothing  love  could  dictate  ; but  for 
some  time  all  in  vain.  Lady  St.  Maur  left  all  the  gaieties  of 
London  to  go  down  to  the  Hall,  and  remaining  there  a fort- 
night, spent  day  after  day  with  the  young  mourners  ; seeking, 
by  the  truest  sympathy  and  warmest  kindness,  to  alleviate 
their  grief,  and  even  in  such  a trial  it  was  some  consolation  to 
feel  they  were  not  utterly  friendless  and  alone. 

On  examination  of  Mrs.  Leslie’s  will,  her  little  property, 
which  the  success  of  Walter’s  work  had  much  increased,  was 
found  to  be  equally  divided  between  her  daughters,  as  were 
her  few  trinkets  and  other  personal  possessions.  It  was  at  first 
considered  by  Lord  and  Lady  St.  Maur,  that  it  would  perhaps 
be  happier  for  the  sisters  to  live,  as  they  now  could  do,  in- 


202 


WOMAN  S FEIENDSHIP. 


dependently  together ; but  that  if  Florence  still  preferred 
remaining  with  them,  her  home  should  be  Minie  s also. 
Meanwhile  Lady  Mary  Villiers,  who  had  found  time  and  feeling 
in  the  midst  of  her  own  happiness  to  sympathise  with  her 
favourite,  travelled  down  to  the  sisters’  cottage,  expressly  to 
persuade  Minie  to  accompany  her  on  a projected  tour  through 
Wales  and  Scotland,  assuring  her  that  the  change  of  air  and 
scene  would  do  her  more  good  than  anything.  She  should  be 
quite  quiet,  join  in  no  unseemly  gaiety,  as  their  own  family 
and  Mr.  Melford  composed  the  whole  of  the  travelling  party. 
Minie  felt  as  if  the  exertion  would  be  far  too  painful ; believing, 
as  the  young  are  prone  to  do  under  sorrov/,  that  nothing  could 
ever  make  her  happy  or  mirthful  again.  The  earnest  persua- 
sions of  her  sister,  the  representations  of  the  Countess,  the 
pleadings  of  Lady  Mary,  whom  she  really  loved,  at  length, 
however  prevailed,  and  she  accepted  with  gratitude  the  kind- 
ness proffered. 

Nearly  two  months  after  Mrs.  Leslie’s  death,  Minie  joined 
her  friend.  Florence  was  to  return  to  Lady  St.  Maur  the 
following  week,  having  still  some  affairs  to  settle  ere  she  could 
leave  the  cottage ; particularly  the  arrangement  of  her  mother’s 
papers,  which  task,  from  a peculiarly  painful  repugnance,  she 
had  postponed  from  day  to  day,  and  at  last  resolved  not  to 
attempt  till  after  Minie’s  departure.  Ferrers  had  told  her  it 
had  been  evidently  in  the  very  act  of  waiting  that  Mrs.  Leslie’s 
fatal  attack  had  seized  her  ; and  there  was  something  on  poor 
Florence’s  heart  which  made  her  turn  giddy  with  emotion 
whenever  she  thought  of  those  papers,  traced  by  the  hand  of 
the  dying,  containing  perhaps  those  very  words  which  her 
voice  had  not  power  to  pronounce.  It  was  strange,  perhaps, 
that  this  very  circumstance  had  not  urged  her  to  examine  them 
long  ere  this;  but  she  shrank  from  the  task,  vainly  endeavour- 
ing to  define  why.  Was  it  presentiment?  We  firmly  believe 
in  the  existence  of  such  a feeling,  a dim  shadow,  undefinable 
and  vague,  and  utterly  shapeless,  yet  impossible  to  be  with- 
stood. Florence,  however,  had  too  strong  a mind  to  give  way 
to  such  repugnance.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  entered  the 
chamber  since  her  mother’s  death,  and  for  several  minutes  she 
stood  upon  the  threshold,  as  if  she  could  not  pass  it,  as  if 
death  were  still  there,  and  hand  in  hand  with  desolation,  smote 
upon  her  heart.  It  was  about  ten  o’clock  in  the  morning,  and 
the  sun  shone  with  mocking  brilliance  within  the  rose-trellised 


woman’s  friendship. 


203 


casements,  and  the  song  of  the  birds  seemed  so  discordantly 
gay,  that  a feeling  almost  of  irritation  came  upon  her.  The 
consciousness  of  its  sinfulness  instantly  followed,  and  flinging 
herself  on  her  knees  by  the  bed,  she  prayed  fervently  for  sub- 
missiveness and  strength.  Unlocking  the  escritoire,  she 
drew  a table  near  her,  and  prepared  to  look  over  the  papers 
and  arrange  them.  The  first  page  which  struck  her  was 
evidently  that  on  which  her  mother  s pen  had  last  rested  ; it 
was  blotted  as  if  the  pen  had  fallen  on  it,  and  the  last  few 
words  were  almost  illegible.  Yet  her  eye  was  arrested  on  them 
instantly;  she  read  her  own  name : her  mother  was  addressing 
her.  With  a sudden  and  convulsive  movement,  she  caught  up 
other  closely-written  papers,  and  looked  for  their  commence- 
ment; words  seemed  to  catch  her  strained  gaze,  and  absolutely 
rivet  it  upon  them,  but  still  as  in  desperation  she  sought  the 
beginning,  arranging  the  sheets  consecutively  as  she  did  so ; 
and  then  she  read,  and  her  cheek  gradually  grew  blanched, 
and  then  her  lip,  but  still  there  was  no  movement.  Hour  after 
hour  passed,  and  found  her  in  the  same  occupation  on  the 
same  spot. 

Ferrers  was  out  for  the  day,  and  only  one  other  servant,  a 
simple  country  girl,  was  in  the  house.  About  three  o’clock 
the  girl  knocked  at  the  door,  to  say  dinner  was  waiting  in  the 
parlour.  Florence  replied  composedly  in  words,  but  her  voice 
sounded  in  her  own  ears  so  strangely  altered  that  she  looked 
round  in  terror,  thinking  some  one  else  had  spoken.  Then  she 
deliberately  folded  up  those  papers  one  by  one,  tied  them  to- 
gether, and  with  them  still  in  her  hand,  rose  from  her  seat ; 
she  made  a few  steps  forward,  as  if  to  reach  the  door,  but  a 
strange  mist  was  before  her  eyes,  the  room  reeled  ; and  when 
Fanny  returned,  wondering  she  did  not  come,  she  found  her 
fallen  forwards  on  the  ground,  to  all  appearance  lifeless. 
Though  much  terrified,  the  girl  did  all  she  could  think  of  to 
restore  animation.  Sense  returned  at  length,  but  so  slowly, 
and  with  so  little  semblance  of  life  in  the  marble  stillness  of 
Florence’s  features,  that  Fanny  entreated  her  to  let  her  run  to 
the  Hall,  and  get  them  to  send  for  medical  advice.  Life  itself 
seemed  to  return  with  her  violent  effort  for  speech  to  negative 
this  proposal. 

''  No,  no,  no,”  she  wildly  cried,  as  she  struggled  to  rise ; 
send  for  no  one  ; I shall  be  well ; I am  well.  Tell  no  one  of 


204 


WOMANS  miENDSHIP. 


She  sank  back  exhausted,  but  after  a few  minutes  again 
waved  her  hand  impatiently,  and  Fanny  was  obliged  to  leave 
her.  She  returned  at  intervals,  satisfied  at  length  that  after 
a lapse  of  nearly  two  hours  Florence  spoke  more  like  herself. 
But  still,  hour  after  hour  passed,  and  she  made  no  effort  to 
quit  the  chamber  or  the  couch  on  which  she  lay.  Her  hands 
were  tightly  clasped  together,  her  eyes  gazed  on  vacancy  ; her 
lip  and  eyelid  sometimes  moving  convulsively,  as  if  tears  were 
near,  but  none  came.  All  was  cold,  rigid,  motionless  as  stone. 

Evening  came,  and  with  it  the  postman,  bringing  a large 
packet,  directed  by  the  Earl.  She  opened  it  mechanically  ; 
there  was  a strange-looking,  seemingly  a lawyer  s paper,  and  a 
long  kind  note  from  Lady  St.  Maur.  Yet  even  this  last  she 
read  many  times  ere  she  could  understand  a single  line.  At 
last  she  became  conscious  the  Countess  w^as  alluding  to  the 
paper  inclosed. 

Do  examine  it,  dearest  Florence,  and  let  me  know  what  it 
even  before  you  come.  The  Earl  is  so  very  curious,  that 
were  it  not  for  punctilio,  I believe  he  would  have  been  tempted 
to  open  and  examine  it,  neither  he  nor  I can  imagine  what  you 
can  have  to  do  with  lawyers’  papers.  But  I really  am  uncon- 
scionable to  ask  you  to  write ; I forgot  that  you  will  not 
receive  this  till  Monday  evening,  and  you  come  on  Wednesday. 
I shall  long  for  you  more  than  ever.  Constance  is  very  good ; 
I look  at  her  with  astonishment,  and  think  you  a worker  of 
wonders.  All  my  darlings  are  well ; there  are  many  inquiries 
as  to  when  Miss  Leslie  will  come  back.  I will  not  say  how 
much  Lady  Helen  and  I miss  you,  but  we  all  look  forward  to 
Wednesday.  If  that  should  prove  a settlement  of  marriage 
from  some  invisible  bridegroom,  what  shall  we  do  ? ” 

Florence  mechanically  took  up  the  papers,  and  broke  the 
seal ; but  in  vain  she  tried  to  understand  the  contents.  The 
very  writing  seemed  illegible,  though  in  reality  it  was  clear 
enough.  Paper  and  pens  were  near  her,  and  after  having  read 
the  closely-written  letter  through  three  times  without  compre- 
hending a single  word,  she  wrote  a few  lines  to  Lady  St.  Maur 
begging  her  to  excuse  the  hasty  scrawl,  as  she  had  been  very 
unwell  all  day,  and  she  felt  confused,  which  perhaps  was  her 
best  excuse  for  entreating  Lord  St.  Maur  to  examine  the 
papers  for  her,  as  she  found  it  impossible  to  understand  them. 
It  was  either  a mistake,  or  she  was  labouring  under  some 
strange  delusion.  She  read  her  note  carefully  over,  it  seemed 


woman’s  friendship. 


205 


correct,  but  she  dared  not  assure  herself  it  was,  for  a weight 
of  lead  seemed  crushing  all  consciousness  from  her  brain. 

Night  came,  and  Florence  mechanically  retired  to  bed,  but 
there  was  neither  rest  nor  sleep  for  her.  If  for  a few  minutes 
she  dozed  from  utter  exhaustion,  it  was  to  start  up  again  from 
the  most  frightful  images,  to  press  her  hands  on  her  aching 
temples,  and  pray  that  madness  might  not  be  her  portion,  for 
she  felt  as  if  it  already  were  ; and  the  very  prayers  seemed 
mockery,  for  her  heart  rebelled,  and  the  question,  why  was  she 
doomed  to  all  this  misery  ? was  mentally  reiterated  till  her 
brain  burned  and  reeled.  So  passed  the  night,  and  so  the 
following  day,  yet  she  did  all  she  had  power  to  do.  She  was 
so  calm,  so  collected  in  out\Yard  seeming,  that  Ferrers,  though 
she  did  think  her  strangely  pale,  neither  made  nor  felt  the 
inclination  to  make  any  remark. 

The  evening  of  Wednesday  found  her  at  St.  James’s, 
welcomed  with,  if  possible,  more  than  usual  kindness  by  her 
friends.  Lady  St.  Maur  looked  unusually  arch,  as  if  she  had 
something  very  delightful  to  communicate,  but  Florence  scarcely 
saw  it.  She  had  trembled  so  excessively  on  first  entering  the 
house,  that  all  her  energy  was  roused  to  control  herself,  and 
hide  from  every  eye  the  anguish  which  was  consuming  heart 
and  mind. 

''  So  you  actually  read  that  important  letter,  my  dear 
Florence,  without  understanding  its  contents  ; you  really  must 
be  more  of  a simpleton  than  I have  yet  believed  you,”  said  the 
Countess,  laughing ; ‘‘  what  could  have  possessed  you  ? I do 
believe  you  never  even  read  it.” 

Indeed,  I did,  no  less  than  three  times,  but  I had  a 
stupifying  headache  all  day,  and  so  vainly  tried  to  understand 
a line,”  replied  Florence,  with  a slight  shudder,  which  made 
the  Countess  look  at  her  more  attentively. 

And  I think  the  headache  has  not  left  yon  yet.  Why, 
my  dear  girl,  you  are  looking  much  worse  than  when  I left 
you  six  weeks  ago.  Florence,  I fear  your  time  has  been  more 
weakly  than  wisely  employed  since  you  have  been  alone. 
Must  I chide  instead  of  congratulate  you  ?” 

“ Congratulate  !”  repeated  Florence,  in  a tone  so  hollow,  it 
startled  even  herself.  Lady  St.  Maur  put  her  arm  round 
her. 

“ You  are  ill,  exhausted,  dearest  ; so  I must  be  merciful ; 
perhaps  jesting  is  ill-timed,  but  your  letters  made  me  hope  that 


206 


woman’s  friendship. 


you  were  recovering  the  effects  of  your  sad  trial.  I am  so 
rejoiced  at  the  contents  of  that  letter,  that  I fancy  you  must 
be  equally  so ; forgeting  that  independence,  even  riches  may, 
at  such  a moment,  seem  of  little  worth/’ 

Independence  ! riches  !”  repeated  Florence,  turning  her 
pale  face  towards  the  Countess,  with  a gaze  of  bewilderment. 
‘‘  What  can  you  mean  ?” 

Simply,  my  dear  Miss  Leslie,”  replied  the  Earl,  coming 
forward,  and  taking  her  hand  kindly,  that  the  letter  so  perfectly 
incomprehensible  to  you,  is  as  perfectly  clear  to  us,  and  gives 
me  the  happiness  of  informing  you,  that  as  the  acknowledged 
heiress  of  Mrs.  Susan  liivers,  of  Woodlands,  lately  deceased, 
you  are  now  the  sole  possessor  of  a large  estate,  and  all  its  ap- 
purtenances, with  the  not  inconsiderable  addition  of  seven 
thousand  a year.  Will  you  now  try  and  read  Mr.  Carlton  s 
letter,  with  the  assistance  of  my  notes  and  annotations,  or 
believe  this  truth  on  my  simple  word  ?” 

Florence  looked  almost  wildly  at  the  speaker.  The  words 
had  indeed  reached  her  ear  ; but  the  expression  of  her  features 
was  far  more  of  suffering  than  joy. 

‘‘Mrs.  Susan  Rivers!  Woodlands!  It  must  be  a mistake. 
She  means  Flora,  Mrs.  Hardwicke.  I can  have  no  claim,”  she 
said  at  intervals  ; “ dead  ! when  and  where,  and  how  is  this  ? 
Forgive  me,  my  lord  ; but  indeed  I can  scarcely  understand  it 
now.” 

“ Then  let  me  try  if  I can  make  it  clearer,”  replied  the  Earl, 
sitting  down  by  her,  and  producing  the  papers.  “ It  appears, 
from  Carlton’s  letter,  that  Mrs.  Pvivers  has  been  living  for  the 
last  three  years  in  an  obscure  village  in  Wales  ; the  honesty  of 
her  steward,  however,  preserved  her  estate  in  such  good  con- 
dition, that  combined  with  her  own  miserly  method  of  living, 
her  income  has  materially  increased.  About  a year  ago,  her 
steward,  at  her  request,  did  all  he  could  to  find  you  out,  and 
through  her  bankers  in  London  learned  at  length  your  des- 
tination with  us.  Your  claims  upon  her  seem  to  have  consisted 
in  her  vivid  remembrances  of  your  unchanging  regard  and 
respect  towards  herself,  so  long  as  she  permitted  you  to  show 
it ; and  another  very  extraordinary  clause,  that  as  you  were 
the  only  person  she  had  ever  known  who  had  loved  and  trusted 
a friend,  and  yet  not  been  deceived,  you  must  possess  some 
unusual  qualities  over  and  above  those  which  had  so  attracted 
her  regard ; and  were  therefore  likely  to  make  good  use  of 


woman’s  friendship. 


207 


and  enjoy  the  wealth  which  to  her  had  so  long  been  a worth- 
less toy.  She  therefore  bequeaths  to  Florence  Leslie,  eldest 
daughter  of  Edward  and  Mary  Leslie,  the  whole  of  her  large 
possessions,  both  in  land  and  money,  with  the  exception  of  a 
few  legacies.  These  are  the  heads  of  the  lawyer’s  letter ; and 
having  seen  him  to-day,  I have  further  to  tell  you,  that  you 
are  not  only  an  heiress,  but  an  undisputed  one.  No  costs ; 
no  lawyer’s  long  bills ; nor  even  any  relation  of  Mrs.  Livers 
who  would  be  wronged  by  such  a will.  Now,  then,  do  you 
understand,  and  can  you  wonder  at  Ida’s  astonishment  at 
your  non-comprehension  of  this  very  important  letter  ?” 

^^And  will  you  not  accept  my  w^armest  congratulations, 
dearest  Florence  ? We  know  the  little  worth  of  mere  riches ; 
but  you  will  not  abuse  them,  when  they  come  as  now% 
enabling  you  to  do  the  good  your  inclination  prompts,  and 
take  that  station  which  your  birth,  talents,  and  virtues  all 
demand.” 

Birth  demands  ! No,  no,  no  ; I have  no  right,  no  claim  ; 
it  cannot,  cannot  be  !”  exclaimed  Florence,  so  wildly,  so 
incoherently,  that  both  the  Earl  and  Countess  looked  at  her 
with  alarm.  I have  no  right  to  these  riches  ; they  are  not 
mine.  I can  have  no  legal  claim.” 

My  dear  Florence,  you  are  bewildered  still ; and  this 
sudden  surprise  is  too  much  for  you.  Try  and  think  calmly  • 
are  you  not  Florence  Leslie,  the  eldest  daughter  of  Edward 
and  Mary  Leslie  ? nay,  even  your  birth  in  Italy  is  so  clearly 
specified,  that  there  can  be  no  mistake  as  to  your  identity. 
Are  you  not  this  very  Florence?  Do  you  not  love  the  very 
name  of  Italy,  rejoicing  that  it  was  your  birth-place  ? How  I 
used  to  smile  at  your  enthusiasm,  when  I first  knew  you. 
Florence,  my  dear  Florence — you  are  ill,  faint ; your  journey 
has  been  too  much  for  you,”  she  continued,  abruptly,  as  she 
noticed  Florence’s  very  lip  become  white,  while  her  whole 
frame  shivered  convulsively;  and  she  only  saved  her  by 
a quick  movement  from  falling  to  the  ground.  Alarmed 
as  they  were,  still  they  only  considered  it  the  effects  of 
physical  weakness  produced  from  contending  feelings.  She 
recovered  but  slowly,  and  Lady  St.  Maur,  as  she  bent  down  to 
kiss  her,  merely  whispered  soothingly — 

“ Forget  everything  that  can  agitate  or  disturb  you  now, 
dearest.  Only  think  of  our  dear  Minie,  of  what  you  may 
have  the  power  of  doing  for  her ; and  even  if  this  unexpected 


208 


woman’s  friendship. 


wealth  be  of  little  value  to  3^0Hrself,  for  her  sake,  I know  you 
will  soon  acknowledge  its  importance,  not  alone  with  gratitude 
font  joy.’’ 

‘‘  Minie ! ” repeated  Florence,  and  that  name  seemed  en- 
dowed with  power  to  restore  her  to  perfect  consciousness; 

yes,  yes,  I have  still  her  to  love  and  cherish,  to  give  back  in 
part  all  that  has  been  given.  Oh  God  ! oh  God  ! forgive  me; 
this  mercy  has  not  been  sent  in  vain.” 

Lady  St.  Maur  alone  heard  those  murmured  words,  and  to 
her  they  were  intelligible  enough,  as  confirming  her  idea  that 
Florence’s  emotion  was  occasioned  by  the  thought  that  wealth 
had  come  too  late  ; those  for  whose  dear  sakes  it  would  have 
been  so  valuable  had  passed  away,  and  what  then  could  it  be 
to  her  ? Little  could  she  dream  of  the  cause  of  that  deadly 
sickness,  the  wild  yearning  on  that  aching  heart  to  flee  away 
and  be  at  rest. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIL 


INJURY  FORGIVEN. 


That  night  Florence  sat  alone  in  her  own  room,  hours,  long 
hours  after  all  other  eyes  were  closed  in  peaceful  slumber;  her 
hair  loosed,  and  pushed  from  her  throbbing  brow,  as  if  its 
weight  were  insupportable.  One  thought  shone  out,  clear^ 
distinct,  and  at  such  a moment  almost  maddening  in  its 
intensity,  from  the  dead  weight  of  misery  which  seemed  to 
have  fallen  on  her.  She  knew  she  loved,  and  one  whose  own 
words  had  thrown  an  insuperable  barrier  between  them.  Why 
had  those  words  come  now,  as  if  written  in  fire  on  her  brain  ? 
What,  what  could  they  be  to  her  ? He  did  not  love  her — it 
was  not  his  happiness  she  wrecked ; and  her  bruised  heart 
struggled  for  quietness,  for  strength  in  that  one  reviving 
thought.  Alas ! she  overtasked  herself.  She  could  not,, 
indeed,  recall  a word,  or  tone,  or  murmur,  which  could  reveal 
that  he  felt  more  than  simple  kindness  towards  her ; and  yet, 
in  all  the  incongruity  of  mental  torture,  she  lingered  on  the 
idea  that  she  was  beloved,  and  her  doom  was  to  wreck  his 
happiness  even  as  her  own.  And  midst  these  thoughts  never 
once  did  the  recollection  of  her  unexpected  inheritance  arise, 
save  instantly  to  be  repelled  with  a loathing  shudder,  as  if, 
coming  at  such  a moment  it  was  associated  only  with  misery  ; 
while,  by  an  indefinable  contradiction,  those  days  of  privation 
and  suffering  encountered  before  Lady  St.  Maur’s  return,  were 
suddenly  transformed  to  actual  joy.  Yet  all  was  inward ; her 
whole  being  rose  up  against  the  betrayal  of  her  woe,  even  in 
those  moments  when  the  burden  of  that  fatal  secret  seemed 
too  heavy  to  be  borne. 

So  days  passed  on.  Florence  had  earnestly  entreated  the 
Countess  to  permit  her  continuing  her  former  occupations  in 

p 


210 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


the  family,  at  least  till  the  year  of  mourning  was  at  an  end  ; 
not  indeed,  as  a salaried  governess,  but  simply  because  she 
preferred  instructing  Constance  in  her  retirement  to  absolute 
idleness.  In  vain  the  Earl  and  Countess  combated  this 
resolution.  Florence  shrunk  from  the  idea  of  rest  and 
quietness  as  from  appalling  spectres,  knowing  well  that 
nothing  but  continued  occupation  could  in  any  degree  chain 
thought.  She  had  been  so  happy  in  that  employment  that, 
by  a strange  pertinacity,  her  mind  clung  to  it,  as  if,  in  giving 
it  up,  she  loosed  another  link  from  the  past,  and  sank  yet 
deeper  into  the  dark  abyss  of  the  present.  Let  me,  only  let 
me  still  feel  myself  of  use  to  you,’’  was  her  reiterated  cry  ; ''  I 
cannot  live  without  being  of  service  to  any  one,  as  if  I were 
alone  upon  the  earth.  Do  not,  do  not  in  mercy,  give  me 
time  to  think  ! ” 

The  Countess  looked  at  her  with  astonishment.  You  are 
not  speaking  like  yourself,  Florence,”  she  said  : I am  sure 
you  are  enduring  more  than  you  will  permit  me  to  know ; for 
such  semblance  of  impatience  under  trial  is  not  at  all  natural 
to  you.  Granted  that  I accede  to  your  request,  what  am  I to 
do  next  year  ? I shall  only  miss  your  usefulness  the  more.” 

Then  seek  for  some  one  to  supply  my  place,  and  let  me 
feel  that  I am  still  of  real  use  to  you  in  imparting  to  her  your 
plans  and  wishes,”  replied  Florence ; and  it  was  strange  how 
clearly,  in  the  midst  of  this  fiery  ordeal,  her  mind  retained  its 
energies,  as  if  more  effectually  to  prevent  her  secret*' "being 
revealed.  Partly  to  soothe  her,  and  partly  to  enable  her  at 
any  time  to  give  up  her  present  determination.  Lady  St.  Maur 
acceded  to  her  wishes.  She  further  requested  the  Earl  to  act 
for  her,  in  seeing  that  ail  Mrs.  Eivers’s  behests  were  fulfilled. 
She  had  an  interview  with  Mr.  Carlton ; and  during  the  whole 
dry,  business-like  details  upon  v/hich  she  was  compelled  to 
enter,  neither  intellect  nor  composure  failed.  The  lawyer  was 
pleased  with  her  acuteness  and  ready  comprehension  of  all  his 
lengthy  particulars.  One  very  important  question  he  urged 
upon  her — would  she  or  would  she  not  continue  Mrs.  Major 
Hardwicke’s  annuity?  It  was  entirely  at  her  option:  Mrs. 
Eivers,  having  heard  rumours  of  injuries  which  Miss  Leslie 
had  received  from  that  quarter,  and  wishing  her  to  act  with 
perfect  freedom,  had  expressed  no  desire  herself  on  the  subject. 

You  will  then  have  the  kindness  to  treble  that  annuity,” 
was  her  instant  and  unhesitating  reply.  ‘'And  should  you 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


211 


•ever  discover  that  Mrs.  Hardwicke  requires  more,  you  will 
oblige  me  by  instantly  making  application  to  me.  Above  all, 
let  this  annuity  be  made  a settlement  on  her  and  on  her  heirs. 
I do  not  wish  her  to  feel  herself  under  any  obligation  to  me 
personall}^',  or  give  any  one  the  power  of  withdrawing  it.” 

Mr.  Carlton  understood  her  perfectly,  and  promised  com- 
pliance. Woodlands  was  still  inhabited ; the  term,  however, 
of  her  present  tenant  would  expire  within  the  year  of  mourning 
for  her  mother,  and  she  rather  rejoiced  that  it  would  not  be 
vacant  for  the  next  few  months,  as  giving  her  time  to  think  of 
her  future  plans.  The  steward  she  also  saw ; and  prevailing 
on  him  to  accept  the  gift  of  a rich  farm  on  the  Woodlands 
estate,  entreated  him  to  be  to  her  all  he  had  been  to  his 
former  mistress.  The  old  man  was  rejoiced  at  seeing  her 
again,  and  from  him  she  heard  many  particulars  concerning 
Mrs.  Rivers.  He  told  her  that  she  had  gradually  become 
more  and  more  infirm,  but  had  rejected  every  persuasion  of 
himself  and  her  housekeeper  (the  only  two  persons  she  per- 
mitted to  be  about  her)  to  recall  herself  to  her  former  acquaint- 
ances, till,  about  a twelvemonth  previously,  she  had  consented 
to  inquiries  being  made  about  Mrs:  Leslie’s  family,  but, 
secretly,  as  she  wished  nothing  to  be  said  of  herself  until  her 
mind  was  quite  made  up  as  to  her  future  proceedings.  After 
many  disappointments  Watson  learned  all  particulars,  which, 
when  imparted  to  his  mistress,  distressed  her  exceedingly.  She 
reproached  herself  painfully  for  her  selfish  shrinking  from  the 
world,  and  the  useless  hoarding  of  wealth,  which,  judiciously 
applied,  might  have  shielded  Mrs.  Leslie  and  her  family  from 
many  sorrows.  She  never  rested,  after  Watson’s  return,  until 
her  will  was  made  in  Miss  Leslie’s  favour,  speaking  of  her  with 
more  real  affection  than  she  had  ever  been  heard  to  speak  of 
any  one,  but  still  persisting  in  refusing  to  write  and  say  how 
ill  she  was,  and  how  much  she  really  wished  for  Florence. 

No,  no,”  she  repeated  ; '^she  has  found  a real  friend,  and  I 
will  not  take  her  from  her.  She  suffered  enough  from  coming 
to  me  before  : I will  not  risk  her  happiness  again.”  Atone 
for  her  total  neglect  of  her  relatives  she  said  she  could  not, 
for  she  could  not  bring  the  dead  to  life ; but  she  would  leave 
all  she  possessed  to  Florence,  and  her  warmest  blessing  with  it. 

Watson’s  every  word  revealed  that  Mrs.  Rivers’s  heart  had 
dictated  the  will,  and  Florence  could  have  no  remaining  scruple. 
The  Earl  and  Watson  consented  to  further  the  young  heiress’s 

P 2 


212 


woman’s  friendship 


inclinations  on  all  points,  and  Lady  St.  Maur  jestingly  assured 
her  that,  with  two  such  agents,  she  ought  not  to  permit  a 
single  care  to  sully  her  unexpected  good  fortune,  prophesying 
that,  little  as  Florence  seemed  to  rejoice  in  it  now,  there  would 
come  a day  when  she  would  discover  that  nearly  nine  thousand 
a year  was  something  worth. 

Minie’s  affectionate  and  artless  letters  of  congratulations^ 
would,  at  any  other  time,  have  been  sources  of  unalloyed 
pleasure  ; but  now,  though  she  spoke  and  acted  as  usual,  sho 
was,  in  reality,  conscious  of  but  one  all-absorbing  woe.  The 
mind  bore  up,  but  the  frame  dwindled,  notwithstanding  all 
Lady  St.  Maur’s  affectionate  care  ; she  became  paler,  thinner, 
more  drooping  every  week;  still  the  Countess  imagined  nothing 
beyond  what  she  saw.  If,  indeed,  she  sometimes  thought  Florence 
was  not  quite  so  fancy  free”  as  when  she  first  came  to  her,  she 
also  thought  and  hoped,  too,  that  even  there  joy  was  dawning 
for  her.  But  here  Florence  puzzled  her ; her  manner  had  be- 
come cold,  reserved,  if  it  might  be,  even  proud  to  young 
Howard  ; while  his  became,  each  time  they  met,  more  respect- 
fully eager,  and  his  attention  more  decidedly  marked.  Lady 
St.  Maur  would  have  seriously  remonstrated  with  Florence, 
but  her  husband  entreated  her  not.  I have  a particular 
objection  both  to  making  and  marring  matches,  my  dear  Ida,” 
he  said ; ‘'and  I always  find  the  very  best  way  is  to  let  lovers 
alone  ; they  always  come  round  at  last.” 

" But  though  I want  them  to  be  lovers,  I begin  to  fear  I 
have  built  my  hopes  on  air  instead  of  solid  earth,”  she  replied. 
" I set  my  heart  on  this  match  long  ago,  and  was  wicked 
enough  to  wish  Lord  Glenvylle  out  of  the  way ; for  I know 
Frank  himself  would  never  object  to  marrying  a portionless 
bride.  I am  certain  it  was  only  the  idea  of  his  father’s  re- 
fusing his  consent  which  deterred  him  from  coming  forward 
before  ; and  now  that  Florence  is  independent  as  himself,  and 
there  is  nothing  against  it,  she  becomes  cold,  distant,  and  all 
unlike  herself.” 

" But  perhaps  she  really  does  not  like  him  ; and  if  so,  she 
acts  very  properly.” 

" I am  very  certain  that  she  does  love  him,  as  only  a girl 
likes  that  can  love.” 

" And  who  made  you  so  wise,  love  ? ” asked  her  husband, 
smiling. 

“Woman’s  wit,  and  woman’s  intuitive  perception  of  all 


woman’s  friendship. 


213 


relating  to  her  own  sex,  my  dear  husband.  I have  known 
Florence  too  many  years  not  to  discover  this,  although  not  a 
word  on  the  subject  has  ever  passed  between  us.  Now,  in 
truth,  she  puzzles  me ; for  what  can  make  her  act  so  contra- 
dictorily ? ” 

Perhaps  she  does  not  like  his  only  coming  forward  now. 
She  cannot  know  that  he  only  kept  aloof,  fearing  to  expose  her 
to  the  capricious  refusal  of  his  father.  It  is  not  at  all  unlikely, 
for  she  has  some  pride.” 

Pride  ! she  has,  indeed  ; and  if  this  should  be  the  case,  it 
would  be  a real  kindness  to  give  Frank  a hint,  and  let  him  tell 
the  truth.  I am  half-inclined  : I do  so  dislike  misunder- 
standings.” 

“ Take  care,  my  fair  diplomatist,”  was  the  Earl’s  laughing 
reply  ; do  not  spoil  all : better  let  them  go  their  own  way.” 

Whether  the  Countess  followed  his  advice,  or  her  own  incli- 
nations on  this  important  subject,  we  know  not;  but  certain  it 
is,  that  not  long  afterwards,  Florence  did  receive  a letter  from 
young  Howard,  the  contents  of  which  were  very  much  as  if 
Lady  St.  Maur  had  really  given  him  an  explanatory  hint. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 


IS  IT  LOVE? — THE  LIBEAEY. — THE  DECISION. — TELL  ME  THIS 
WEIGHTY  GEIEF. 


Frank  wrote  as  he  always  spoke — to  the  point,  and  with  feeling. 
Still,  though  Florence  felt  it  not,  passionate  love  was  wanting. 
An  offer  of  his  hand  it  certainly  was  ; and  a warm  allusion  to 
those  gentle  domestic  virtues  which,  he  said,  had  so  riveted  his 
regard,  that  he  felt  her  acceptance  of  his  love  would  make  him 
far  happier  than  he  had  ever  yet  been.  Still,  with  all  this,  it 
was  much  more  an  eloquent  vindication  of  what  might  have 
appeared  interested  in  his  conduct,  only  coming  forward  then, 
than  the  letter  of  a lover.  He  spoke  of  his  father’s  prejudices; 
that  knowing  his  consent  to  their  union  would  never  be 
obtained  while  she  had  been  in  what  Lord  Glenvylle  termed  a 
dependent  position,  he  having  vowed  that  he  would  never 
permit  his  son’s  marriage  with  any  but  an  heiress,  he  had 
feared  to  wreck  his  own  peace  and  hers  ; if,  indeed,  he  might 
hope  that  she  was  not  wholly  indifferent  to  his  suit.  He  con- 
jured her  not  tolbelieve  him  the  money-loving,  fortune-hunt- 
ing, worldling  which  he  certainly  appeared,  to  put  his  sincerity 
to  any  proof  she  pleased,  but  not  to  judge  him  thus;  conclud- 
ing by  entreating  her  to  show  by  her  manner  that  evening, 
whether  he  had  pleaded  indeed  successfully  or  in  vain. 

Meet  him  that  evening ! and  it  depended  on  herself,  herself 
alone  to  seal  her  happiness  or  misery  ! The  cheek  grew  paler, 
more  ghastly  still ; the  lip  more  sternly  rigid,  and  the  storm 
within  seemed  to  crush  her  as  she  sat. 

Love  me — why,  why  does  he  love  me  ? ” were  her  mental 
words.  Is  it  not  enough  to  bear  my  own  misery,  but  I must 
have  his  also  to  endure  ? But  why  must  this  be  ? Why  may 
I not  be  his  ? Who  is  to  know  the  truth  that  he  has  called 
down  upon  himself  the  very  evil  he  forswore  ? Why  should  I 


WOMAN  S FEIENDSHIP. 


215 


doom  myself  to  misery  ? He  need  never  know  it/’  And  for 
one  brief  minute  her  features  were  lit  up  with  the  sudden 
irradiation  of  joy,  yet  it  was  but  mocking  brilliance.  Pressing 
both  hands  on  her  throbbing  temples,  she  called  aloud  for 
help  and  strength.  ‘‘  No,  no,  I cannot  wed  him  falsely.  If  I 
speak,  it  shall  be  the  truth  ; and  then,  will  he  woo  me  then  ? 
No,  no,  he  cannot,  will  not;  it  would  but  be  increase  of  misery 
for  him  and  myself.  He  can  better  conquer  love,  if  he  believe 
that  he  loves  alone.  Pride  will  rise  up  to  quell  it ; he  will  in 
time  be  happy — may  forget  me.  Yes,  yes,  I will  be  silent,  cost 
what  it  may.  I care  not  for  myself.  Let  him  be  happy,  let 
him  forget  me,  aye,  even  love  another,  better,  far  better  than 
link  his  fate  with  mine.” 

Florence  herself  knew  not  the  inward  fervour  of  her  prayer. 
She  was  only  conscious  that  her  happiness  was  in  her  own 
hands,  and  she  had  decided  to  cast  it  from  her.  She  wished 
to  write  to  him ; to  tell  him  how  gratefully  she  felt  his  un- 
called-for explanations,  though  she  could  not  accept  his  offer. 
But  in  vain  she  tried  to  write  these  simple  words.  Sheet  after 
sheet  she  spoiled  and  burnt,  and  gave  up  the  task  in  despair ; 
and  then  she  thought,  could  she  indeed  meet  him,  and  let  her 
manner  speak  ? She  dared  not  trust  herself.  If  she  did  not 
appear,  would  not  that  be  an  all-sufficient  answer?  Hour  after 
hour  passed,  and  she  could  come  to  no  decision.  Again  and 
again  the  question  rose,  why  did  she  make  this  sacrifice?  Was 
it  in  truth  needed,  or  was  she  dooming  herself  to  misery  un- 
called for  ? Oh  ! had  she  but  one  friend  to  whom  she  could 
appeal ; and  then  the  childlike  trust  and  faith  of  her  girlhood 
seemed  to  steal  over  her,  leading  her  to  that  only  Friend  who 
could  aid  and  guide.  The  power  of  prayer  had  of  late  seemed 
denied  to  her,  but  now  an  inward  voice  called  her  to  her 
Father’s  throne,  and  she  knelt  and  prayed  almost  calmly  for 
guidance,  help  to  do  that  which  His  wisdom  deemed  the  best, 
that  which  would  tend  most  to  future  happiness  and  peace, 
however  dark  and  troubled  seemed  her  portion  now.  In  after 
years,  she  looked  back  on  that  hour  of  prayer  almost  in  awe, 
for  she  felt  that  words  had  been  put  into  her  mouth;  she  could 
not  of  herself  have  framed  them,  and  with  them  strength  had 
been  infused  to  preserve  her  from  a doom  compared  with 
which  her  present  grief  was  joy.  When  she  rose,  there  was 
stren^h  in  her  spirit,  decision  in  her  heart.  She  would  not 
see  him,  and  she  did  not.  Resisting  all  Lady  St.  Maur’s 


216 


woman’s  friendship. 


persuasions,  even  her  reproaches,  and  several  messages  from 
the  Earl,  she  remained  that  evening  in  her  own  room. 

But  her  trial  was  not  over.  The  following  morning  a 
message  was  brought  her  that  Mr.  Howard  was  in  the  library, 
and  wished  particularly  to  see  her,  but  that  he  would  not 
detain  her  long.  A sickness  so  deadly  crept  over  Florence, 
that  the  effort  either  to  speak  or  rise  seemed  for  the  moment 
impossible  ; but  after  a few  minutes,  the  prayer  of  the  evening 
rose  in  her  heart,  and  seemed  to  give  it  strength.  She  de- 
scended the  staircase,  and  entered  the  library ; cheek,  lip,  and 
brow  vied  with  the  marble  in  their  whiteness,  yet  not  a limb 
trembled,  not  a quiver  in  the  voice  with  which  she  calmly 
bade  him  good  morning,  as  she  entered,  betrayed  what  w^as 
passing  within. 

Howard  was  in  appearance  the  much  more  agitated  of  the 
two.  He  tried  to  say  something  indifferent,  but  it  would  not 
do,  and  he  plunged  at  once  into  the  subject  which  had  brought 
him  there. 

I thought,”  he  said,  hurriedly,  that  I could  have  waited 
calmly  the  answer  which  I requested,  but  I over-rated  my 
own  powers.  Lady  St.  Maur  spoke  of  indisposition  as  con- 
fining you  to  your  chamber  last  night,  yet  seemed  to  think 
inclination  more  than  indisposition  was  the  cause.  That 
should  have  been  enough,  but  I could  not  feel  it  so,  and  I 
came  to  hear  my  doom  from  your  own  lips,  to  conjure  you  to 
tell  me  that  you  will  at  least  acquit  me  of  that  mean  and 
petty  interestedness  which  may  appear  to  mark  my  conduct. 
Speak  to  me.  Miss  Leslie  ; tell  me,  in  mercy,  that  of  this  at 
least  you  believe  my  motives  free.  Presumptuous  I may  be, 
but  interested!  seeking  worth  only  when  set  in  gold!”  He 
spoke  passionately,  hurrying  on  as  if  he  dreaded  the  answer. 
At  length  it  came. 

Believe  me,”  she  said,  earnestly,  ^^that  no  thought  of  such 
unworthiness  could  enter  my  mind,  as  coupled  with  one  true, 
kind,  honourable  as  yourself.  I grieve  that  my  manner  should 
have  caused  you  to  feel  one  moment’s  suffering  from  a thought 
so  groundless.  Perhaps  it  is  better  that  we  have  thus 
met,  clearly  to  understand  each  other.  Though  wishing  to 
spare  myself  the  pain  of  apparent  coldness  to  one  I esteem  so 
highly  (her  voice  faltered),  I refused  last  night  to  meet  you, 
trusting  that  absence  and  silence  would  speak  for  me.”. 

''  Then  why,  if  on  this  point  you  so  generously  and  justly 


woman’s  feiendship. 


217 


acquit  me,  oil ! wliy  has  your  manner  so  changed  towards  me  ? 
Once  I dared  to  hope  tliat  the  regard  I felt  was  not  wholly 
unreturned,  that  you  looked  on  me  with  a preference  to  some 
others  around  you.  Miss  Leslie — Florence,  dearest  Florence  1 
what  have  I done  to  change  that  feeling,  or  was  I indeed  too 
presumptuous,  believing  that  which  never  was  ? ” 

''  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Howard,  but  perhaps  had  there  been  no 
ohange  in  your  manner,  mine  would  still  have  been  the  same. 
As  a friend,  whose  every  act  and  word  towards  me  w^as  dictated 
and  offered  by  the  most  heartfelt  kindness,  could  I feel  other 
than  regard,  esteem,  as  much  above  that  which  I gave  to 
others,  as  your  high  character  was  superior  to  theirs  ? Your 
manner  changed,  speaking,  as  it  seemed,  of  other  feelings  than 
those  which  had  at  first  actuated  you.  Should  I have  been 
right  to  encourage  those  feelings  when  I knew  that  I might 
give  nothing  in  return,  except  the  sincere  regard  and  high 
esteem  which  I trust,  under  all  circumstances,  I may  be  per- 
mitted to  retain  ? ” 

‘‘  And  with  this  high  esteem.  Miss  Leslie,  have  you,  can  you 
give  me  nothing  more  ? Must  I teach  my  heart  to  forego  all 
its  hopes  of  happiness,  all  those  blissful  domestic  feelings  of 
which,  till  I knew  you,  I was  unconscious  ? May  I not  look 
to  time  to  gain  me  that  blessing  which  I crave  ; to  turn  those 
cold  words  'regard,  esteem,’  to  some  kinder  feeling?  Oh,  do 
not  condemn  me  at  once  to  disappointment ! Give  me  at 
least  hope ! ” 

He  spoke  with  emotion,  and  his  was  a voice  when  in  per- 
suasion difficult  to  resist ; but  now  it  was  resisted,  and  by  one 
whose  sinking  heart  and  fragile  frame  seemed  scarcely  able  to 
support  her  many  minutes  longer. 

" Mr.  Howard,”  she  said,  distinctly  but  slowly,  "you  must 
not  hope  this.  I should  be  guilty  of  deceit,  should  I bid  you 
to  encourage  feelings  to  which  I may  never  give  return.  I am 
grateful,  most  deeply  grateful,  for  the  high  regard  you  must 
feel  towards  me,  to  select  me  from  others  so  much  more 
worthy.  Let  me  retain  a portion  of  that  regard,  even  while  I 
beseech  you  to  conquer  every  feeling  towards  me,  which  can 
only  create  distress.  Let  us  be  friends  as  we  have  been, 
Mr.  Howard  ; indeed,  indeed  it  is  better  for  us  both,  to  be — 
to  feel  no  more.” 

Frank  Howard  looked  at  her  with  wondering  admiration  ; a 
strange  feeling  for  a rejected  man.  Yet  if  truth  must  be 


218 


woman’s  friendship. 


spoken,  he  could  not  understand  himself.  If,  indeed,  he  was 
under  the  influence  of  passionate  love,  as  he  fancied,  how 
came  it  that  disappointment,  that  unpleasant  lowering  of  self- 
esteem generally  attendant  on  rejection,  did  not  so  oppress 
him,  as  to  banish  all  feeling  save  for  himself  ? It  seemed  as  if 
the  very  respect  he  felt  for  Florence  restrained  all  inclination 
to  urge  his  suit.  Yet  these  were  incomprehensible  emotions 
to  a man  who  felt  that  all  his  hopes  were  at  an  end  ; he  tried 
to  define  them,  but  felt  it  was  impossible.  He  lingered  gazing 
on  her  sadly  and  silently,  for  several  minutes;  then  raising 
her  hand  to  his  lips,  pressed  it  strongly  between  both  his  own, 
and  said  fervently — 

God  bless  you,  Florence  ; 5^ou  have  spoken  kindly,  openly, 
like  yourself.  I will  conquer,  if  I can,  all  that  can  throw  a 
barrier  between  our  continued  intimacy.  Let  us  be  friends, 
as  you  say,  and  grant  me  this  one  proof  of  your  regard. 
Should  you  ever  need  a faithful  friend — a brother — let  me  be 
that  one ; trust  me  without  scruple,  for  no  personal  disappoint- 
ment, no  individual  feelings  shall  ever  interfere  to  check 
my  interest  in  your  welfare.  Once  more,  God  bless  you  ! ” 

He  was  gone  ere  she  could  reply,  and  Florence  was  alone. 
She  made  no  efi*ort  to  recall  him,  but  her  intense  gaze  re- 
mained fixed  on  the  door  through  which  he  passed.  She  was 
not  conscious  of  the  wild,  agonized  torrent  of  thought  rushing 
over  heart  and  brain,  save  that  it  felt  like  waves  of  molten 
fire  ; and  then  there  came  a low  gasping  cry,  and  her  burning 
forehead  dropped  on  her  pale  hands,  her  whole  frame  shook  as 
if  with  convulsion.  Time  passed,  but  Florence  knew  it  not ; 
all  outward  emotion  had  given  way  to  a stillness  as  of  death  * 
her  very  figure  seemed  contracted  with  the  soul’s  agony.  A 
voice  at  length  aroused  her ; and  though  it  was  colder,  severer 
far  than  its  wont,  it  recalled  her  scattered  senses,  and  as  Lady 
St.  Maur  pronounced  her  name,  she  looked  up. 

Florence,  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this?”  she  said^ 
impatiently.  ‘'What  can  have  made  you  act  as  you  have 
done  ? You  know,  of  all  things,  I abhor  mystery  and  caprice. 
You  have  told  me,  or  rather  your  general  actions  have,  that 
you  consider  me  as  your  friend ; prove  that  you  do  so  now, 
and  tell  me  the  reason  of  this  extraordinary  decision.” 

Florence  endeavoured  to  obey,  but  though  her  lips  moved, 
no  sound  came  from  them.  Lady  St  Maur  was  touched  in 
the  midst  of  her  unwonted  impatience,  and  sitting  down  hj 
her,  she  said,  more  kindly — 


woman’s  friendship. 


215 


Now  do  be  the  same  candid,  ingenuous  Florence  you  have 
always  been.  You  know  all  I mean,  for  there  is  only  one 
subject  on  which  you  can  feel  guilty  of  a proper  want  of 
candour.  Make  up  for  it  now,  and  tell  me  why  you  have 
chosen  misery,  when  happiness  was  offered  to  you.  Frank 
has  just  been  to  bid  me  farewell,  intending  to  join  Lord  Edge- 
mere’s  family  in  Scotland,  instead  of  telling  me  that  you  and 
he  were  two  of  the  happiest  people  in  the  world.  I have 
wrung  the  truth  from  him,  that  you  have  refused  to  accept 
his  love,  on  plea  that  you  have  none  to  give  in  return,  nothing 
but  cold  regard.  Florence,  I never  read  woman’s  countenance 
rightly  if  you  have  not  told  him  falsely ! ” 

A cry  of  intense  though  smothered  anguish  burst  from  poor 
Florence,  as  she  bowed  her  head  on  her  clasped  hands,  as  if  she 
shrunk  in  suffering  from  the  Countess’s  searching  look.  Lady 
St.  Maur  gazed  at  her  with  increased  astonishment. 

What  is  this  dreadful  mystery,  Florence  ? for  dreadful  it 
must  be  to  occasion  this  decision,  and  your  overwhelming 
wretchedness.  I will  not  believe  that  you  have  grown  so  sud- 
denly ambitious  as  to  reject  one  like  Frank,  because  you  do 
not  think  him  good  enough  for  your  present  prospects.” 

No,  no,  no,”  gasped  Florence,  the  effort  to  speak  causing 
her  very  brain  to  reel;  "'believe  anything,  everything  but 
that ! I am  not  worthy  of  him,  not  fit  to  be  his  wife,  when 
not  the  very  lowest  would  wed  with  me.” 

"Florence!”  exclaimed  the  Countess,  "you  cannot  know 
what  you  say.  Not  worthy,  not  fit  ? When  dependent  and 
portionless  your  pride  might  have  suggested  this,  but  not  now. 
Even  then  it  would  have  been  absurd,  but  now  it  is  incompre- 
hensible, quite  unlike  yourself.  I am  certain  that  you  love 
him.  You  neither  can,  nor  dare  deny  it.” 

" It  is  because  of  this ; because  I love  him,  that  I would 
not  link  his  fate  with  mine.  I care  not  for  myself ; it  seems 
easy  to  die  ; but  for  him, — no,  no  I I love  him  all  too  well.” 

" Will  you  gratify  me  by  speaking  comprehensibly,  my  dear 
Florence,  because  you  certainly  do  mystify  me  more  and  more. 
If  you  wish  me  to  retain  my  good  opinion  of  you,  and  desire 
our  mutual  confidence  to  continue,  speak  out.  I cannot  con- 
tinue regard  towards  one  who,  professing  friendship,  fails  in  its 
most  important  duties — sincerity  and  confidence.” 

Lady  St.  Maur’s  temper  and  patience  very  seldom  failed  her, 
except  in  cases  like  this.  She  could  not  feel  for  Florence, 


‘220 


^VOMAN'S  FRIENDSHIP. 


because  tbe  real  truth  was  so  completely  unsuspected,  that  she 
could  not  frame  any  reason  for  Florence’s  mysterious  conduct, 
and  still  more  mysterious  words.  It  appeared  to  her  that  she 
had  chosen  misery  instead  of  happiness,  for  some  very  un- 
founded cause,  some  fancied  injury  to  her  proper  pride  by 
Frank’s  holding  back  so  long,  that  she  had  worked  herself  into 
the  idea  of  a necessity  for  self-sacrifice,  to  which  the  Countess 
fancied  her  exceedingly  prone,  and  was  now  suffering  the  con- 
sequences of  her  own  delusion.  Florence  withdrew  her  hands 
from  her  brow,  and  looked  up  in  Lady  St.  Maur’s  face. 

Cannot  continue  regard  without  sincerity  and  confidence,” 
.she  murmured,  more  to  herself  than  to  the  Countess.  I did 
not  dream  of  this.  But  perhaps  it  is  better  ; I have  no  right 
to  conceal  the  truth  from  her,  but  yet,  to  lose  all  at  once — 
love,  friendship  ; to  find  myself  an  object  of  scorn,  instead  of 
love,  oh  ! how  may  I bear  it  ? ” and  again  a strong  convulsion 
bowed  her  frame. 

Some  sudden  revulsion  of  thought  brought  before  Lady  St. 
Maur  at  that  moment  several  trifling  circumstances,  unnoticed 
at  the  time,  which  now  congregated  to  convince  her,  as  with  a 
flash  of  intelligence,  that  there  was  more  real  meaning  in 
Florence’s  wild  words  and  agonized  manner  than  her  first  irri- 
tation had  supposed.  In  an  instant  she  remembered  also  that 
all  this  had  been  since  Mrs.  Leslie’s  death,  and  Florence  had, 
in  fact,  been  unlike  herself  ever  since.  What  the  mystery 
could  be,  in  truth,  she  guessed  not ; but  her  words  rushed  back 
upon  her  as  cruel  and  unjust,  and  throwing  her  arm  caressingly 
round  the  unhappy  girl,  she  drew  her  closer  to  her,  saying,  in 
her  own  natural  voice — 

Forgive  me,  my  own  Florence,  I have  been  very  cruel, 
feeling  more  for  Frank  than  for  you.  Even  if  I think  you 
wrong,  or  at  least  unwise  to  continue  this  strange  mystery,  I 
have  not  tried  the  kindest  way  to  solve  it.  Will  you  forgive 
me  and  trust  me  too  ? It  must  be  some  terrible  secret  to  move 
you  thus,”  she  continued,  becoming  really  alarmed,  as  the  sofa 
actually  shook  beneath  Florence’s  tearless  sobs.  Yet  give  it 
words,  dearest ; do  not  let  it  lie  on  your  heart  and  break  it. 
You  can  have  nothing  to  tell  which  will  change  my  love. 
Sorrow  and  evil  are  always  magnified  unless  revealed.  Come, 
tell  me  this  weighty  grief,  my  Florence,  and  try  if  I have  not 
power  to  dissolve  it  into  air.” 

No,  no,  not  this  ! no  one  on  earth  can  remedy  this  ! ” she 


woman’s  friendship. 


221 


wildly  reiterated,  starting  from  Lady  St.  Maur’s  detaining 
hold,  and  standing  erect  before  her.  Fit  wife  for  him  whose 
own  lips  vowed  that  he  would  rather  bear  the  anguish  of  un- 
conquered love  than  wed  with  infamy;  that  his  wife  must  have 
no  stain,  no,  not  even  a mother’s  1 and  knowing  this,  might  I 
wed  him,  when  the  truth  seemed  revealed  but  to  save  him  from 
misery.  No,  no,  I have  prayed  to  die  ere  the  words  were 
spoken  ! but  I live,  breathe,  feel  still,  and  they  must  be  said.. 
Fit  wife  for  him  ! I,  who  have  no  name,  no  rank ; who  know 
not  what  I am,  save  that  I am  not  Florence  Leslie  ! not  Mary 
Leslie’s  child  ! Nought — nought — but  a child  of — of — ” 
Sense,  motion,  strength,  all  failed  with  the  convulsive  effort;, 
and  she  fell  forward  powerless  at  Lady  St.  Maur’s  feet. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 


DESPAIR. — THE  ERIEND  TRUSTED. 


When  Florence  recovered,  she  found  herself  laid  on  her  own 
bed  partially  undressed;  Alice  holding  some  strong  essence 
which  had  evidently  been  used,  and  the  Countess  plentifully 
bathing  her  temples  and  hands  with  cold  water.  For  nearly 
a quarter  of  an  hour  Florence  seemed  hovering  between  sense 
and  unconsciousness,  aware  that  Lady  St.  Maur  and  Alice 
were  near  her,  but  unable  to  define  the  cause  of  her  sudden 
illness.  She  had  often  fainted  before,  but  it  seemed  to  her 
never  so  painfully  as  then  ; and  the  difficulty  to  regain  sense, 
power,  and  thought  never  was  so  overwhelming.  Her  head 
felt  as  if  bound  to  the  pillow  by  weights  of  lead  ; with  an  in- 
cessant throb,  and  burning  of  the  temples,  accompanied  by 
sharp  pain.  Still  the  mind  would  work  ; the  efforts  to  think 
never  relaxed ; and  amidst  the  dark,  formless  mist  which 
enveloped  her  l3rain,  there  felt  one  indefinable  but  unconquer- 
able sense  of  pain.  Her  eyes  closed  upon  the  light,  as  if  it 
wrung  the  mind  to  deeper  torture,  till  Lady  St.  Maur  bending 
over,  said,  in  accents  of  the  deepest  feeling — 

My  poor  girl,  my  own  Florence,  do  you  not  know  me  ? 
Will  you  not  speak  to  me  ? '' 

The  voice  recalled  her  terribly  to  life,  and  all — all  which 
had  passed  ; the  cause  of  that  faintness,  the  misery  which  was 
not  alone  upon  her  now,  but  hemmed  her  in  as  by  a wall, 
whence  there  was  no  escaping,  no  retreat.  Her  eyes  opened, 
and  her  lips  moved  ; but  only  a strong  convulsion  contracted 
her  features.  The  Countess  made  a sign  to  Alice  to  leave 
them,  and  Florence  seemed  partially  reheved  by  her  departure, 
but  still  she  did  not  speak  ; it  was  only  the  despairing  yet  im- 
ploring gaze,  which  betrayed  thought  had  regained  its  sway. 
For  several  minutes  Lady  St.  Maur  felt  as  if  she  could  not 
address  her.  Every  usual  suggestion  of  comfort  seemed 


woman’s  friendship. 


223 


irrelevant  to  grief  such  as  this.  She  could  only  press  her  lips 
caressingly  on  her  burning  brow,  and  chafe  her  hands  within 
both  her  own. 

‘‘Florence  ! dearest  Florence!  Do  not  look  upon  me  thus,” 
she  said,  at  length,  her  own  tears  falling  fast  as  she  spoke. 
“ Speak  to  me  ; surely  there  must  be  some  mistake,  and  you 
are  labouring  under  some  strange  delusion.  What  foundation, 
what  proof  can  you  have,  after  so  many  years  ? ’’ 

“It  is  truth,”  murmured  Florence,  and  though  her  voice 
was  hollow,  it  was  perfectly  distinct;  “a  mother’s  dying  words, 
a mother’s  dying  hand  affirmed  it.  A mother  ; oh  God  ! she 
was  not  my  mother  1 I was  not  so  blessed.” 

“She  was  your  mother  in  affection  — in  all  which  makes 
that  precious  tie,  my  Florence  1 Do  not  add  to  the  agony 
of  this  moment  by  darker  thoughts  than  need  be.  Think  how 
she  loved,  cherished  you.” 

“Would — would  that  she  had  not  thus  loved  me,  but  left 
me  to  die  with  her  who  gave  me  birth,  I had  been  spared  this 
moment  1 ” wildly  and  despairingly  burst  from  Florence’s 
parched  lips. 

“Do  not  say  so,  my  sweet  girl;  it  is  wrong,  it  is  sinful, 
even  in  agony  such  as  this,  to  give  way  to  despair.  Think  on 
the  blessing  you  have  been — ay,  and  may  still  be.” 

“Still  be  1”  reiterated  Florence;  “to  whom?  Who  is 
there  will  love  me,  associate  with  me  now  ? An  outcast, 
abandoned  ; with  a stain  that  who  can  bear  ?” 

“ I will,”  replied  the  Countess,  frankly  and  unhesitatingly. 
“ Florence  ! can  you  think  this  unlooked-for  misfortune  is  to 
throw  a barrier  between  you  and  me  ? It  shall  not,  even  if 
all  must  be  proclaimed.  But  can  there  be  any  cause  for  you 
to  abandon  a name  which  you  have  so  long  and  nobly  borne  ? 
You  are  not  well  enough  to  tell  me  all,  or  I would  entreat  you 
to  confide  in  my  friendship,  and  let  me  think  for  you.” 

“ I will — I will,  if  I can ; but,  oh  1 forgive  me,”  she  ex- 
claimed, half  rising  and  clasping  Lady  St.  Maur’s  arm  with 
passionate  eagerness,  “check  me,  stop  me,  if  I say  aught 
madly ; I do  not  mean  it.  I would  not  say  it,  but  there  have 
been  times  Avhen  I felt  as  if  I were  going  mad — and  now  it  is 
-stronger  than  ever  !”  and  she  sunk  back  almost  exhausted  ; 
but,  after  a few  minutes,  faintly  resumed — 

“ In  the  private  drawer  of  my  desk  is  the  MS.  Read  it ; 
do  what  you  will.  But,  oh ! do  not  let  it — ” 


224 


woman’s  friendship. 


“ Hush,  dearest ! I will  not  hear  such  words.  Your  con- 
fidence, indeed,  I accept ; and,  trust  me,  it  shall  not  he 
misplaced.  But  my  husband — ” She  paused,  evidently 
anxious,  and  Florence  became  again  fearfully  agitated. 

‘‘  Yes — yes,  it  must  be  ; I will  not  burden  you  with  any- 
thing that  must  be  kept  from  him.  Tell  him  all  you  will,  I 
will  risk  even  the  agony  of  being  forbidden  to  associate  with 
you  ; for  I know  he  will  not  think  as  you  do.” 

‘‘  I know^  him  better,  Florence.  Try  and  banish  such 
miserable  thoughts.  For  my  sake,  for  Minie’s,  endeavour  to 
be  calm  ; to  hope  that  all  may  not  be  as  wretched  as  it  seems. 
I know  that  at  this  moment  all  I say  seems  vain,  worse  than 
vain,  almost  cruel ; but,  oh  ! trust  to  a God  of  love,  my 
Florence  ! You  shall  be  happy  yet.” 

'‘Happy!”  repeated  poor  Florence,  with  an  irrepressible 
shudder.  " Not  in  this  world.  God  forgive  me,  and  bles& 
you  for  all  you  would  do  ! ay,  and  for  all  you  feel ! If  I am 
ill,  if  I cannot  tell  you  then,  do  not  let  Minie  know  ; keep  it 
from  her.  Let  her  still  believe  me  the  sister  she  has  so  long 
loved.  I cannot  break  every  link  at  once.” 

Her  voice  became  fainter,  and  utter  exhaustion  followed. 
Lady  St.  Maur  promised  all.  But  vainly  Florence  struggled 
to  be  calm.  Agony  such  as  hers  mocks  at  will,  and  hour 
after  hour  of  that  dreadful  day  passed,  leaving  her  with 
alternate  fever  and  exhaustion. 

Every  precaution  was  taken,  but  before  night  Lady  St.  Maur 
watched  over  her,  as  she  struggled  in  all  the  paroxysms  of 
delirium. 

The  Earl  and  Countess  had  been  engaged  that  day  both  for 
dinner  and  the  evening.  No  one  enjoyed  such  things  more, 
when  happiness  was  around  her,  for  there  was  that  in  her  own 
noble  heart  and  happy  temper  which  reflected  itself  on  all 
around,  and  ever  enabled  her  to  cull  flowers  when  others  saw 
but  weeds.  But  when  aught  of  suffering  appealed  to  her  for 
sympathy,  scenes  of  revelry  were  relinquished,  not  only 
without  a sigh,  but  simply  because  she  could  not  jqjn  them. 
This  day  finding  it  even  more  than  usually  impossible,  she 
succeeded  in  persuading  her  husband  to  go  without  her  ; 
entreating  him  to  wait  the  solution  of  Florence’s  sudden 
illness  and  its  effect  on  her  till  he  returned. 

Finding  that  Florence  had  sunk  into  the  heavy  slumber  of 
a powerful  opiate,  and  that  even  when  awake  she  could  do- 


woman’s  friendship. 


225 


nothing  for  her — for  the  poor  girl  was  now  unconscious  of  her 
presence — Lady  St.  Maur  left  her  to  the  united  care  of  Alice 
and  Ferrers,  and  retreated  with  the  important  manuscript  to 
her  own  boudoir.  It  was  near  midnight,  but  she  had  deter- 
mined not  to  retire  to  rest  till  her  husband  s return,  and  took 
advantage  of  that  hour  of  quiet  to  become  acquainted  with 
the  real  cause  of  Florence’s  deep  agony,  still  hoping  that  all 
was  not  so  dark  as  it  seemed.  At  first  she  had  felt  half 
indignant  at  the  long  concealment  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Leslie ; 
but  the  feeling  did  not  last.  She  could  well  understand  how, 
loving  her  as  she  did,  she  should  shrink  in  anguish  from 
inflicting  a shock  so  terrible.  But  why  then  reveal  it  at  all  ? 
It  surely  could  not  be  needed,  and  she  thought  the  act  of 
doing  so  misguided  and  cruel.  Many  things  in  Florence, 
since  her  mother’s  death,  returned  to  her  mind,  and  Lady  St. 
Maur  felt  that  while  she  had  that  terrible  secret  to  conceal 
she  might  bear  up  ; but  once  revealed,  she  should  sink  power- 
less beneath  it.  And  Frank  Howard,  too  ! Lady  St.  Maur 
actually  shuddered  as  she  pictured  the  interview  between 
them.  Yet  she  could  not  blame  the  sacrifice ; she  could  not 
believe  it  under  the  circumstances  uncalled  for.  Howard’s 
sentiments  had  been  too  lately,  too  powerfully  expressed  to 
admit  a doubt  as  to  his  course  of  acting,  if  the  truth  were 
known ; and  as  such  it  was  far  better  that  Florence’s  ill-fated 
love  should  never  be  revealed.  But  Florence ! even  if  she 
had  only  this  with  which  to  contend,  what  misery  must  be 
her  portion ; and,  oh  1 how  nobly,  how  admirably,  she  had 
acted  up  to  the  promise  of  her  girlhood ! The  happiness  of 
those  she  loved  was  dearer  than  her  own. 

It  was  with  tearful  eyes  the  Countess  took  up  the  manu- 
script. The  hand  had  evidently  trembled  in  its  task ; for 
here  and  there  words  were  illegible,  but  as  a whole,  the  sense 
was  clear  and  continued.  The  mind  of  the  writer  had 
evidently  never  failed.  We  might  give  a brief  sketch  of  the 
contents,  but  our  readers  may  better  enter  into  Florence’s 
feelings  by  following  Mrs.  Leslie’s  words. 


Q 


CHAPTER  XL. 


MRS.  Leslie’s  manuscript. — the  mystery  solted. 


Florence^  my  beloved  one  ! ” — so  that  important  lettei 
began — I know  not  when,  or  indeed  if  ever,  your  eyes  will 
rest  upon  these  words ; yet  there  is  that  upon  my  heart  urging, 
impelling,  liay,  commanding  liie  to  write  that  secret  which  has 
dwelt  with  me  for  nearly  three-and-twenty  years,  sternly  forbid- 
ding me  to  bear  it  with  me,  as  my  love  would  dictate,  to  the 
grave.  I have  sought  to  disobey  that  in'ward  voice  ! but  it 
haunts  me  still,  like  tones  from  another  world,  and  as  if  sin, 
and  suffering,  and  horror  would  rest  on  its  disobedience.  I 
liiust.  obey.  I have  prayed  that  our  God  would,  in  his  great 
mercy,  keep  this  dread  secret  unrevealed,  unless  its  conceal- 
ment threatened  deeper  agony  than  its  betrayal ; and  still,  oh 
still.  He  may  grant  my  prayer  ! I will  write  the  truth ; and 
if  His  wisdom  bids  it  be  revealed,  Florence,  my  child,  believe 
He  wills  it  for  some  secret  yet  important  good,  to  spare  yet 
deeper  woe.  But  I must  be  calm.  I thought  to  have  con- 
quered all  of  earth,  to  have  buried  its  wild,  passionate 
yearnings  in  my  Walter’s  grave ; but  when  I think  of  you, 
Florence,  I know  that  feeling  is  unconquered  still.  The  years 
of  devoted  love  you  have  lavished  on  me,  and  on  my  children, 
the  lisping  endearments  of  infancy,  the  willing  obedience,  the 
fond  affection  of  your  youth,  the  t)lessings  you  lavished  upon 
our  home  in  the  hours  of  trial — when  I recall  these  things,  my 
Florence,  what  right  have  I to  break  the  sweet  delusion  which 
I myself  have  fostered  in  your  heart  ? How  dare  I breathe 
one  word,  which  would  whisper  that  no  tie  of  nature  bound 


■woman’s  friendship. 


227 


■US  ? God  of  mercy,  spare  me  tins ! I cannot,  cannot  inflict" 
such  misery  on  my  child ! 

* * * * * * 

''  I was  very  ill  after  writing  the  above,  my  Florence  ; and 
it  seemed  as  if,  indeed,  this  dreaded  trial  would  be  spared 
me ; but  once  more  I have  rallied,  and  again  I hear  that 
spiritual  voice  urging  me  on.  Let  me  write  then,  ere  strength 
Siud  calmness  again  fail.  You  know  I was  very  young  when  I 
lost  my  mother ; my  father  then  placed  me  at  school,  thinking 
he  better  ensured  my  comfort  and  happiness  than  his  taking  me 
with  him  abroad.  I never  saw  him  again  for  five  years  after- 
vrards ; he  died  abroad.  A distant  relation,  but  our  only 
family  connection,  who  had  been  with  him  in  his  last  moments, 
came  to  England,  and  took  me  to  live  with  her,  making  no 
difference  between  me  and  her  own  child.  From  that  hour  I 
should  have  been  perfectly  happy,  had  not  my  friend  had 
griefs  and  trials,  which  I could  not  witness  without  sympathy. 
She  was  an  Englishwoman  by  descent,  but  Italian  by  birth, 
and  had  also  married  an  Italian,  and  had  lived  the  greater 
portion  of  her  life  in  Italy,  long  enough  to  regard  it,  indeed,  as 
her  own  country,  more  particularly  as  it  had  been  the  birth- 
place of  her  only  child — a daughter — and  the  scene  of  an  un- 
usually happy  wedded  life.  It  would  be  a long  and  tedious  task, 
my  Florence,  to  dilate  on  all  she  did  for  me;  suffice  it  that  she 
bound  me  to  her  with  such  strong  ties  of  veneration,  gratitude 
and  love,  that  I felt  as  if  even  the  devotion  of  a life  could 
never  adequately  repay  her.  For  her  I felt  I could  do  little, 
but  I made  a secret  and  solemn  promise,  that  to  her  daughter 
I would  endeavour  to  return  in  part  all  I owed  herself : and 
this  seemed  an  easy  task ; for  Madeleine,  in  spite  of  faults 
which  wrung  her  mother’s  heart  with  foreboding  misery,  was, 
in  truth,  one  to  cherish  and  caress,  to  feel  that  her  very 
failings  excited  no  common  love.  She  was  my  senior  by  two 
years ; endowed  with  a vivacity,  an  intelligence,  and  beauty, 
that  would  have  made  me  feel  almost  painfully  her  inferior, 
had  she  not  loved  me  as  fondly  as  I loved  her — nay,  she 
would  listen  to  my  representations  : my  influence  would  often 
lead  her  repenting  and  sorrowing  to  her  mother’s  neck,  when 
all  the  good  advice  of  our  worthy  governess  had  been  without 
effect.  Essentially  Italian,  a very  child  of  impulse,  she  could 
not  be  indifferent — she  either  loved  or  hated.  Few  could 

Q 2 


228 


woman’s  friendship. 


understand  her,  even  amongst  those  she  would  have  loved 
and  therefore  she  was  continually  disappointed,  continually 
mortified,  till  haughtiness  and  pride  at  length  kept  her  aloof 
from  all  except  ourselves.  Lovely  she  was,  but  it  was  not  the 
loveliness  of  our  more  northern  clime.  The  large,  dark,  soul- 
beaming eye — the  clear,  olive  complexion — the  luxuriant 
tresses  of  raven  hair — the  lip,  so  full  of  sentiment  and  love, 
that  even  when  her  eyes  were  closed,  the  face  retained  its 
exquisite  expression — such  she  was,  in  feature  as  in  character 
a daughter  of  that  land  in  which  the  blood  cannot  fiow  as 
calmly  as  in  less  sunny  shores. 

‘^Florence,  my  child,  is  there  none  to  whom  these  traits 
of  feature  (not  of  character)  seem  applicable,  even  as  to 
Madeleine  ? Know  you  of  none  whom  they  might  with  equal 
force  describe  ? Alas  ! my  child,  my  pen  still  shrinks  from  its 
task,  and  lingers  on  these  minute  particulars  as  if  it  would 
not  pass  to  those  so  much  more  important  to  us  both. 
****** 

‘‘When  Madeleine  was  about  nineteen,  some  affairs  re- 
specting her  late  husband’s  Italian  property  recalled  Madame 
Montoni  to  Italy.  I was  of  course  to  accompany  them  ; but 
my  quiet  taste  was  peculiarly  English,  and  I shrunk  almost 
in  pain  from  residing  in  other  lands.  Not  so  Madeleine. 
Though  only  thirteen  at  the  period  of  her  quitting  Italy,  her 
love  for  her  native  land  amounted  almost  to  a passion.  Sho 
was  never  weary  of  expatiating  on  its  varied  charms,  alike  of 
nature  and  of  art — the  warm  feelings  of  its  inhabitants,  the 
glow  of  poetry  and  of  love,  which  (girl  as  she  was)  she 
described  as  existing  there  in  contradistinction  to  what  she 
termed  the  coldness,  the  worldliness,  the  heartlessness  of 
England.  I could  not  understand  the  wild  flights  of  her  vivid 
imagination,  but  my  own  quieter  love  for  my  English  home 
enabled  me  to  bear  with  her,  and  give  her  the  sympathy  she 
craved.  With  these  associations,  loving  her  and  her  angel 
mother  as  I did,  do  you  wonder  any  longer,  my  beloved  child, 
at  the  sadness  which  your  passionate  longings  to  look  on  Italy 
once  occasioned  ? Alas ! I knew  it  was  nature  that  spoke,  and 
I have  looked  upon  you,  at  such  times,  till  the  agony  of  re- 
collection seemed  too  heavy  to  be  borne. 

“ We  went  to  Italy.  The  Montoni  estates  lay  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Eome,  and  that  city  alternately  with  Florence 


WOMANS  FRIENDSHIP. 


229 


became  our  residence.  Madeleine  had  not  been  introduced  in 
England,  but  now  entered  with  avidity  into  the  delights  of 
society,  which  was,  indeed,  fascinating,  including  all  the 
highest  Italian  families,  with  many  English  visitants  of  first* 
Tate  rank  and  talent.  It  was  at  this  time  that  Madame 
Montoni’s  anxieties  for  Madeleine  redoubled.  Surrounded  by 
adulation  and  gallantry,  by  all  that  has  power  to  shake  even 
the  steadiest — and  she  loved  these  things — she  laughed  at  her 
mother  s fears,  declaring  that  not  one  of  those  whose  devotion 
she  permitted — nay,  enjoyed — had  power  over  her  heart — that 
the  pleasures  of  her  present  life  were  far  too  agreeable,  to 
permit  a thought  of  her  changing  them  for  the  quieter  enjoy- 
ments of  a wife.  In  vain  her  mother  remonstrated  that  she 
was  acting  wrongfully,  cruelly,  in  permitting,  as  she  did,  the 
attentions  of  one  for  a time,  and  then  remorselessly  forsaking 
him  for  others  who  pleased  her  more.  It  was  her  pleasure,  she 
said,  and  could  do  no  harm,  for  every  one  must  be  accustomed 
to  her  now.  I could  perceive  the  anxiety  of  my  beloved  friend, 
and  she  made  me  the  confidant  of  many  fears.  My  heart 
was  often  wrung  by  the  tears  I have  seen  her  shed,  under 
the  painful  belief  that  her  child’s  very  affection  for  and  confi- 
dence in  herself  were  lost  in  the  wild  turbulence  of  spirit 
which  these  exciting  pleasures  caused.  Her  impulse  was  to 
return  to  England  ; but  affairs  of  importance  still  detained 
her  in  Italy,  and  Madeleine  had  petulantly  declared — and  we 
knew  her  too  well  to  doubt  her — that,  rather  than  return  to 
England,  she  would  give  herself  away  to  the  first  who  offered, 
and  dare  all  the  miseries  of  an  union  without  love.  Still  we 
loved  her ; she  riveted  our  affections  as  by  a spell,  and  we 
-could  but  pray  that  true  affection  might,  in  time,  be  excited, 
and  tame  those  restless  spirits,  and  that  love  of  universal 
sway,  into  devotedness  to  one.  She  did  really  love  at  length, 
and  madly,  passionately,  as  was  her  nature.  It  was  strange, 
with  her  avowed  hatred  to  everything  English,  that  it  should 
have  been  by  an  Englishman  that  all  the  deep,  fervid  feelings 
of  her  character  were  called  forth  ! But  Charles  Neville  pos- 
sessed few  of  the  quiet  unpretending  marks  of  a genuine 
English  gentleman.  Eminently  handsome,  fascinating  in 
manner,  and  combining  all  the  attractions  of  a solid  educa- 
tion with  elegant  accomplishments,  he  became  the  leading 
star  of  every  circle  at  the  capital,  obtaining,  with  neither  the 
rank  of  birth  nor  of  decided  talent,  the  suffrages  of  all. 


230 


woman’s  friendship. 


Unlike  any  other  who  had  before  bowed  down  to  her,, 
Madeleine’s  curiosity  was  first  excited  towards  the  stranger ; 
and  then  quick,  impetuous,  as  every  other  impulse,  the  rushing 
torrent  of  her  love.  She  believed  it  returned,  and  so  did  all 
those  who  saw  them  together.  But  Madame  Montoni  herself 
w^as  not  aware  of  the  extent  of  Neville’s  admiration  and  de- 
votion. She  was  at  that  time  in  declining  health,  and 
Madeleine  joined  society  under  the  care  of  a female  friend.  I 
was  also  to  have  been  introduced,  but  I preferred  remaining 
with  my  benefactress — a resolution  she  permitted  the  more 
willingly,  as  Edward  Leslie,  afterwards  my  beloved  husband, 
was  almost  always  with  us,  and  our  affections  mutually 
engaged. 

'^Madeleine  was  strangely  silent  at  home  upon  the  attrac- 
tions of  her  new  admirer.  It  was  this  fact  which  first  made 
me  believe  she  really  loved  him,  and  I tried  to  obtain  her  con- 
fidence, but,  for  the  first  time,  it  was  refused  me.  ^ You  can- 
not understand  me,’  was  her  reiterated  answer.  ‘Your  feelings, 
even  in  love,  are  all  too  calmly  happy — too  unimpassioned,  for 
the  comprehension  of  mine.  Be  satisfied,  that  I can  never  again 
be  the  girl  I was.’ 

“ I imparted  my  thoughts  on  the  subject  to  my  friend  ; but 
she  did  not  think  much  of  them,  believing  it  scarcely  likely,, 
with  Madeleine’s  peculiar  feelings,  that  an  Englishman  would 
eventually  be  her  choice. 

“About  this  time,  I know  not  how  they  first  arose,  but 
rumours  were  afloat  greatly  to  the  discredit  of  Mr.  Neville. 
At  first  they  were  unheeded : his  influence,  his  many  fasci- 
nations retained  the  more  powerful  ascendency.  But  at  length 
reports  became  certainties ; positive  proofs  were  collected  (at 
least  so  it  was  alleged)  that  Charles  Neville  was  not  his  real 
name — that  he  had  been  traced  through  many  of  the  Italian 
cities  as  a man  of  the  most  dishonourable  practices — that 
many  a domestic  circle  had  been  plunged  into  misery  by  his 
means  ; with  other  charges  equally  base,  and  perhaps  equally 
unfounded  ; for,  terrible  as  were  the  consequences  of  his  in- 
troduction to  our  family,  we  have  learned  little  of  him  even  to 
this  day.  Several  of  Madame  Montoni’s  confidential  friends 
informed  her  of  these  rumours ; but  Madame  Montoni  did  not 
credit  all  she  heard.  She  knew  the  malignant  influence  of 
envy  towards  all  who  had  ever  been  made  the  star  of  fashion  ; 
still  she  did  her  duty  : she  refused  to  permit  her  daughter  to 


WOMAN  S FKIENDSHIP. 


231 


meet  or  associate  with  him,  unless  he  came  forward  with 
decided  proofs  of  innocence.  Never  can  I forget  poor 
Madeleine’s  look  when  this  command  was  given  ; but  she 
uttered  no  word  of  either  assent  or  refusal.  I saw  that  she 
rejected,  without  the  smallest  reservation,  all  the  reports 
against  him;  and  every  kindly  feeling  towards  those  who 
dared  to  mention  them  turned  into  contempt  and  hate.  Once, 
only,  I ventured  to  speak  on  the  subject,  but  she  silenced 
me  at  once.  ‘ Mary,  if  you  would  not  have  me  hate  and 
despise  you,  as  I do  others,  breathe  not  this  fool’s  tale.  I 
could  better  doubt  my  own  life  than  his  worth  and  honour. 
Do  not  attempt  to  read  my  heart : you  cannot.  I would  love 
you  still ; then,  oh  ! do  not  you,  too,  seek  to  reason  with  me.’ 
And  for  one  brief  minute  she  threw  herself  on  my  neck,  in  a 
convulsive  passion  of  tears  ; but  there  was  never  again  any 
visible  interruption  to  her  extraordinary  calmness  : her  whole 
character,  indeed,  was  changed.  From  being  impetuous  and 
self-willed,  even  in  trifles,  she  became  cold  and  calm.  She  no 
longer  sought  the  scenes  of  pleasure,  once  enjoyed  with  so 
much  avidity.  To  indifferent  persons  she  was  haughtier  than 
ever ; to  her  mother  and  myself  more  softly  and  gently 
affectionate.  To  me  it  was  so  evident  that  she  was  under  the 
influence  of  some  one  overwhelming  passion,  that  even  now  it 
appears  strange  that  by  her  mother  the  real  fact  was  un- 
suspected. 

Neville  quitted  Rome  ; at  least  so  it  was  supposed,  for  by 
none  but  our  poor  Madeleine  was  he  ever  seen  within  the  city 
again,  and  soon  afterwards  Madame  Montoni  removed  her 
establishment  to  Florence.  We  had  not  been  there  long  before 
an  Italian  of  high  character,  attracted  by  Madeleine’s  sur- 
passing beauty,  paid  her  attentions  too  marked  to  be  mistaken. 
She  did  not  perhaps  encourage,  but  certainly  did  not  repulse 
him.  Her  poor  mother  rejoiced,  but  I could  only  feel  uneasy; 
convinced  that  Madeleine  still  loved  Neville,  I feared,  oh,  how 
forebodingly,  that  her  present  conduct  was  but  a veil,  conceal- 
ing other  and  far  different  resolutions.  After  a reasonable 
time  the  Count  made  his  proposals  for  her  to  her  mother, 
conjuring  her  to  plead  his  cause ; she  did  so,  and  Madeleine, 
with  the  same  unfaltering  composure,  signified  her  acceptance, 
throwing  an  impassable  barrier  between  her  own  feelings  and 
her  mother’s  affectionate  sympathy,  checking  the  one  effectu- 
ally by  her  determined  concealment  of  the  other.  Not  a 


232 


woman’s  friendship. 


fortnight  afterwards,  Madeleine  disappeared,  leaving  no  trace 
of  her  path,  no  clue  by  which  she  might  be  followed  ; nothing 
but  a note,  undiscovered  in  the  confusion,  and  not  found  till 
some  days  afterwards.  I have  preserved  it  : it  was  simply 
this  : — 

^ Mother,  it  is  over.  Before  you  receive  this  I shall  be  the 
wife  of  Charles  Neville ; and  without  one  doubt,  one  fear,  do 
I become  so  ; I believe  not  one  tittle  of  the  charges  brought 
against  him  ; he  holds  my  fate,  and  I must  be  his  alone.  All 
existence,  save  his  love  for  me  and  mine  for  him,  is  burnt  up 
within  me.  I would  weep  for  the  grief  this  decision  will  cause 
you,  my  mother,  but  I cannot;  I would  ask  you  to  forgive  me, 
but  I cannot  feel  that  I have  done  aught  to  need  forgiveness. 
You  laid  a positive  command  on  me  never  to  speak  with  him 
again,  a command  impossible  to  be  obeyed,  and  therefore  I 
have  spared  all  needless  altercation,  deeming  it  better  tacitly 
to  acquiesce  than  to  excite  arguments  which  could  easier  shake 
the  ocean  rock  than  Madeleine.  For  him  who  sought  my  hand 
I told  him  I had  no  heart  to  give  ; yet  he  persisted,  and  he  is 
fooled  according  to  his  folly ; I can  spare  no  farther  thought 
for  him  ; all,  all  are  concentrated  in  my  husband ; his  fate  is 
mine  ; be  it  ignominy  or  honour,  I glory  thus  to  share  it.  I 
know  not  our  home.  He  is  a wanderer,  and  long  years  must 
pass  ere  we  meet  again.  Forget  me  ; I was  never,  could 
never  be,  the  friend,  the  comforter  to  you  that  Mary  is ; let 
her  be  now  your  only  child  ; give  her  the  love  you  lavished 
but  too  fondly  upon  me.  God  bless  you,  mother,  too  good, 
too  fond  for  one  like  me.  " Madeleine.’ 

‘Ht  was  enough;  Madame  Montoni  sank  beneath  it.  Every 
inquiry,  every  effort  was  made  to  discover  some  traces  of  the 
fugitives ; but  all  was  vain.  My  wedding-day  had  been 
originally  fixed  in  the  very  week  of  Madeleine  s flight,  but  of 
course  it  was  postponed.  After  three  months,  however,  Madame 
Montoni  would  not  permit  a longer  delay ; she  said  she  had  no 
wish  in  life  but  to  see  us  united,  to  feel  that  I was  happy,  and 
would  be  loved  and  cared  for  when  she  was  gone.  And  we 
were  married  according  to  her  wish  ; she  bore  up  a few  weeks 
longer,  and  then  sank,  her  child’s  name  (coupled  with  forgive- 
ness and  with  blessing)  the  last  word  upon  her  lips.  Her 
death  and  the  lingering  anxieties  for  Madeleine,  whom  I still 


woman’s  friendship. 


233 


loved  with  unchanging  affection,  were  heavy  clouds  on  the 
dawn  of  our  wedded  life. 

‘'We  were  anxious  for  the  calm,  quiet  joys  of  England,  yet 
neither  regretted  that  my  husband  was  unavoidably  detained 
in  Italy,  still  hoping  that  we  might  yet  receive  tidings  of 
Madeleine.  I saw  that  Edward  feared  more  even  than  he 
expressed,  and  the  sweet  promise  of  an  addition  to  our 
domestic  happiness,  in  the  birth  of  a child,  could  not  make 
me  happy  or  at  rest.  At  length  the  longed-for  tidings  came. 
It  would  have  been  difficult  for  any  one  less  intimately 
acquainted  with  my  poor  friend’s  writing  to  have  recognised 
it,  in  the  almost  illegible  scrawl,  but  for  me  the  wording  alone 
was  sufficient.  And  oh  ! even  now  the  agony  that  brief  note 
caused  returns  in  all  its  force. 

“ ‘ Mary,’  it  ran,  for  I have  it  now  before  me,  ‘ Mary,  he  has 
betrayed  me  ! It  was  all  true  the  tale  they  told.  Oh  God ! 
oh  God  ! that  I should  live  to  say  it.  Yet  still  I loved  him, 
ay,  so  loved  him,  that  though  I knew  him  guilty,  miserably, 
unredeemingiy  guilty,  I clung  to  him,  worshipped  him  still ; I 
would  have  done  so  yet ; I would  have  followed  him  wherever 
his  wild  will  led ; I would  have  been  faithful,  loving,  to  the 
end ; but  he  has  trampled  on  me,  scorned,  betrayed,  forsaken 
me,  laughed  at  my  mad  folly  in  so  loving  him  ; sneered  at  the 
weak  credulity  which  believed  in  his  truth  and  worth  ; and 
more,  he  has  dared  assert  that  our  marriage  was  null  and  void, 
a mere  mockery  of  form  ; that  I have  no  claim  on  him  ; that 
he  has  done  by  me  as  by  many  others,  deceived,  betrayed,  and 
left  to  die.  Die  ; I will  not  die  till  my  unborn  babe  is 
righted,  till  I have  'proofs  that  the  marriage  was  not  false.  I 
know  it  was  not,  and  he  knows  it  also  ; for  he  has  quailed 
before  me  in  the  utterance  of  his  foul  lie.  I will  traverse 
Italy  till  I have  discovered  the  priest  who  united  us,  till  I 
have  proofs  that  I am  not  the  foul  thing  he,  even  he,  the 
merciless  betrayer,  has  dared  to  term  me.  Mary,  I will  do 
this ; you  know  me  ; I shall  not  fail.  And  when  it  is  done, 
when  my  child  is  cleared  from  aught  of  stain,  I will  come  to 
my  mother’s  grave  {lie  told  me  I had  killed  her),  come  to  her 
grave  and  die  ! ’ 

“ Florence,  my  child,  will  'you  read  this  unmoved  ? Has  it 
no  deeper  voice  than  the  mere  narrative  of  one  now  gone  ? 


234 


woman's  friendship. 


Alas,  alas  ! I dare  not  hope  it.  Nature  will  have  voice.  My 
child,  my  blessed  child,  believe  those  words,  believe  them  as  I 
do,  as  I have  ever  done,  that  she  was  not  deceived,  but  the 
villain  foiled  himself. 

* * * * * * 

‘^Again  I have  been  ill,  my  Florence,  but  am  once  more 

permitted  to  resume  my  task ; I would  not  end  it  as  above  ; I 
would  conclude.  Conceal  these  papers  where  nought  but  a 
special  Providence  can  bring  them  to  your  eye.  I am  not 
weakly  superstitious  ; I believe  in  neither  fate  nor  chance,  but 
I do  believe  that  a Father's  arm  is  round  us  ; that  a Father’s^ 
love  will  spare  my  child  all  needless  woe  ; and  if  it  be  not  for 
special  good,  will  permit  these  papers  to  remain  unseen  for 
ever. 

The  emotions  caused  by  that  dreadful  letter  occasioned 
premature  confinement.  I was  very  ill  some  weeks;  but  my 
child,  a girl,  though  weakly,  promised  to  survive.  But  for 
Madeleine  what  could  we  do  ? The  letter  bore  no  date,  no 
place  of  residence  ; the  post- mark  was  obliterated — all  seemed 
a dark,  shapeless  mystery,  which  no  effort  could  solve.  We 
were  then  at  Koine,  and  the  wisest  plan  appeared  to  be  to 
return  to  Florence,  and  there  wait  (making  every  possible 
inquiry  meanwhile)  my  poor  friend  s appearance ; I never 
doubted  she  would  come.  Though  her  intentions  with  regard 
to  the  curd  who  had  married  them  were  vague  and  undefined, 
I knew  her  so  well  that  I felt  convinced  she  would  persevere 
in  finding  him,  and  hoped  she  had  more  perfect  intelligence  of 
his  abode  than  her  letter  revealed. 

“ To  Florence,  then,  we  determined  on  returning,  as  soon  as 
my  strength  would  permit ; but  so  greatly  had  my  health 
been  shaken,  that  it  was  full  ten  weeks  after  hearing  from  her 
ere  we  set  off.  My  child,  of  course,  accompanied  us,  and  one 
female  attendant,  who  had  long  been  in  Madame  Montoni's 
service,  and  was  faithfully  attached  to  us  all.  About  the 
middle  of  the  second  day's  journey  my  poor  babe  was  suddenly 
taken  ill.  No  house  or  village  being  near,  we  proceeded  as 
rapidly  as  possible,  hoping  to  reach  some  town  where  medical 
aid  might  be  procured.  Speed,  however,  for  my  infant  was  of 
no  avail ; she  expired  in  my  arms  before  evening  fell,  and  just 
as  we  reached  a miserable-looking  house  near  the  source  of  tho 
Arno.  My  husband  saw  that  assistance  for  our  child  was 
indeed  vain;  but  being  greatly  alarmed  for  me,  he  determined,. 


woman’s  friendship. 


235’ 


if  lie  could  but  procure  a comfortable  room,  to  remain  there 
that  night  instead  of  going  farther. 

The  hostess  received  us  kindly  and  hospitably,  but  de- 
clared she  hardly  knew  how  to  accommodate  us,  as  the  only 
good  room  she  had  was  occupied  by  a lady  who  had  only  been 
confined  three  days,  and  was  very  ill  indeed ; adding,  that  the- 
poor  lady  was  quite  alone,  and  she  thought  something  was 
wrong  in  her  mind,  she  looked  and  talked  so  strangely.  Much 
more  she  might  have  said,  but  I heard  her  not ; a new  and 
terrible  emotion  roused  me  from  the  stupor  which  had  fallen 
on  me;  strength,  mental  and  bodily,  seemed  suddenly  restored 
in  the  thought  that  Madeleine,  my  poor  Madeleine  was  found, 
and  needed  me.  I flew  to  the  apartment  pointed  out  as  hers. 
I stood  beside  the  miserable  couch,  and  one  glance  sufficed 
me.  Notwithstanding  the  awful  change  from  blooming  health 
to  the  hues  of  death — for  at  first  I thought  she  was  gone  for 
ever — I recognised  my  beloved  and  suffering  friend.  She  lay 
as  if  unconscious,  save  that  her  arm  clasped  her  child,  who 
was  sleeping  in  all  the  peace  of  infant  slumber,  its  little  head 
cradled  on  her  bosom,  which  had  nought  but  love  to  give. 

‘'^Madeleine,’  I shrieked,  as  I threw  myself  on  my  knees 
beside  her,  and  pressed  the  thin  cold  hand  again  and  again  to 
my  lips,  ‘ Madeleine,  friend,  sister,  speak  to  me  but  one  word 
— tell  me  you  know  me — love  me.’ 

My  wild  words  recalled  the  departing  soul  : her  eyes 
opened,  fixed  themselves  on  my  face  with  such  a glare  of 
inquiry,  of  hope  struggling  with  doubt,  that  I could  scarcely 
sustain  the  gaze;  and  then  she  sprang  up  ; she  threw  one  arm 
convulsively  round  my  neck,  and  the  wild,  sharp,  agonized 
accents  of  her  voice  thrill  on  me  now. 

‘ Mary — Mary — Mary,’  she  reiterated  ; ^ God  has  brought 
you — none  but  He,  to  save,  love — my  child,  my  child — no 
stain,  no  shame.  I have — ’ and  her  voice  was  lost  in  a 
gurgling  rush  of  blood,  streaming  from  mouth  and  ear  and 
nostril ; her  head  dropped,  her  arm  sank  powerless — a few 
minutes,  the  rushing  torrent  ceased,  and  all  vras  still. 

I know  not  how  long  I remained  kneeling  motionless 
beside  the  couch,  gazing  as  if  fascinated  on  the  countenance 
of  the  dead,  gleaming  forth  in  such  ghastly  whiteness  from 
the  dark  lurid  stains  which  had  dyed  the  linen  all  around  her. 
I heard  not  my  husband’s  voice,  nor  knew  that  he  stood 
beside  me.  It  was  the  feeble  w^ail  of  an  infant  which  aroused 


:236 


woman’s  friendship. 


me  ; bewildered  and  feverish,  I imagined  it  the  voice  of  my 
own  child,  and  snatched  it  to  my  bosom ; its  little  face  and 
hands  and  dress  were  dyed  with  its  mother’s  blood.  Fearfully, 
hurriedly,  I removed  those  unseemly  stains,  clothed  it  in  clean, 
refreshing  garments,  and  then  I gave  it  food,  its  natural  food ; 
and  as  it  eagerly  and  helplessly  clung  to  my  breast,  as  I felt 
its  little  head  nestling  against  me  as  my  own  poor  babe  had 
done,  sense  and  energy  returned  in  a passionate  burst  of  tears. 

Night  came.  They  had  removed  all  that  was  horrible  from 
the  chamber  of  death  ; and  side  by  side  they  had  laid  the  dead, 
my  infant  and  my  friend.  All  but  my  own  maid  believed 
them  mother  and  child  ; and  there  was  no  need  to  dispel  the 
illusion.  That  night,  as  I looked  upon  the  innocent  babe  so 
strangely,  so  providentially  thrown  upon  my  care,  the  sole  re- 
cord of  those  I had  loved  with  a daughter’s  and  sister’s  tender- 
ness, who  appeared  made  mine  to  fill  up  the  void  which  my 
poor  babe’s  death  had  wrought ; as  I felt  how  utterly  it  was 
dependent  upon  me,  nay,  mine  in  all  save  life  itself,  I knelt 
before  my  husband,  I conjured  him  to  let  me  call  it  ours,  to 
fold  it  to  our  hearts  in  lieu  of  the  infant  taken  from  us  ; like 
her  it  was  a girl,  and  whoever  its  father  might  be,  we  robbed  it, 
by  adoption,  of  no  legal  heritage.  It  was  indeed  a iveighty 
boon,  though  at  the  moment  I knew  not  its  extent;  I only 
saw  the  struggle  in  my  husband  ere  he  could  grant  it.  He 
bade  me  reflect  on  all  I might  draw  down  upon  myself — we  knew 
nothing  of  its  father,  but  that  he  was  a man  of  sin ; we  knew 
not  even  if  its  birth  were  legitimate.  He  bade  me  ponder 
well,  if,  should  we  have  other  children,  I could  still  bestow  on 
our  adopted  one  the  same  love.  It  needs  not  to  repeat  all 
that  passed  between  us.  It  was  evident  his  only  objection 
was  its  doubtful  birth,  and  the  evil  passions  it  might  inherit 
from  both  its  parents.  Even  after  a long  struggle,  and  he  had 
granted  my  boon,  and  granted  it  in  such  a manner  as  tenfold 
to  increase  the  love  and  esteem  I bore  him,  he  still  wished  me 
to  bring  up  the  child  as  an  adopted  one,  not  as  my  own,  fear- 
ing the  effect  of  concealment  and  deception  on  my  own  heart. 
But  at  such  a moment  I could  not  realize  this  fear — I could 
not  believe  that  aught  of  misery  or  remorse  could  spring  from 
u deception  only  acted  to  secure  the  happiness  of  an  innocent 
being  committed  to  my  care.  And  even  to  this  my  generous 
Edward  at  length  acceded.  And  in  after  years,  when  in  your 
deep  yearnings  for  Italy,  your  love  for  all  that  was  high  and 


woman’s  friendship. 


237 


noble  in  art  and  poetry,  there  I traced  your  mother’s  nature,, 
and  trembled  lest  similar  sufferings  should  be  yours  ; when  I 
saw  you  quitting  the  child  for  the  high-souled  loving  girl,  and 
I thought  on  all  woman’s  trials,  and  dark  forebodings  and 
remorseful  fears  crept  over  me,  bidding  me  dread  I knew  not 
what.  Never  once  did  my  beloved  husband  upbraid  me  for 
having  acted  contrary  to  his  advice  ; nay,  he  could  not  share 
my  fears  ; for  when  I was  tortured  by  the  feeling  that,  even 
to  secure  your  happiness,  I had  done  wrong — that  there  was 
actual  sin  in  forfeiting  the  straight  line  of  truth,  he  soothed 
me  by  the  assurance,  which  I could  see  he  felt  himself,  that  I 
had  done  right — I had  secured  the  happiness  of  our  adopted, 
and  given  him  a treasure  blessed  and  blessing  as  his  own 
children.  And  so  we  both  felt,  my  Florence.  Every  year 
that  passed  bringing  forth  new  virtues,  new  qualities  to  endear. 
We  blessed  God  for  you,  my  child,  as  for  our  others  ; aye, 
and  bless  Him  now,  for  what  have  you  not  been  to  us  ? how 
blessedly  have  you  repaid  our  cares  ! Are  you  not  ours  still  ? 
Mine  has  been  the  breast  to  nourish,  the  hand  to  guide,  the 
lips  to  train.  Florence,  my  beloved,  my  own,  oh  1 think  of 
me,  call  me  your  mother  still. 

* * * * * * 

My  strength  is  waning,  my  sweet  child.  With  increase 
of  difficulty  my  pen  resumes  its  task. 

‘^By  my  poor  Madeleine’s  dying  words,  it  seemed  to  us  that 
she  must  have  obtained  some  positive  proof  of  the  legality  of 
her  marriage,  and  was  in  possession  of  papers  to  that  effect. 
Greatly  to  our  disappointment,  however,  not  any  such  could 
be  found.  The  hostess  reiterated  her  assurances  that  the  poor 
lady  had  brought  nothing  with  her,  and  as  there  could  be 
nothing  in  a bundle  of  papers  to  tempt  cupidity  or  falsehood, 
we  were  compelled  to  believe  her.  My  husband,  I saw',  imag- 
ined poor  Madeleine’s  words  the  mere  excitement  of  her  own 
belief.  I could  not  think  this,  and  still  believe  she  had  foun- 
dation for  her  assertion.  There  was  no  need  of  a bribe  to 
persuade  our  hostess  to  declare,  if  any  inquiries  should  be 
made,  that  the  poor  infant  had  died  with  its  mother  ; for  she 
herself  believed  it  was  so.  I know  not  if  such  inquiries  were 
ever  made,  for  we  never  saw  the  Vale  of  Arno  nor  its  inmates 
again.  Our  own  maid,  the  only  participator  of  our  treasured 
secret,  was  too  faithfully  attached  to  us  and  to  the  poor  child 


238 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


ever  to  divulge  it.  Even  in  her  marriage  (for  she  married  soon 
afterwards  and  went  to  France),  to  the  hour  of  her  death,  it 
never  passed  her  lips.  We  stayed  another  year  in  Italy,  and 
then  returned  to  England.  Walter  and  Minie  were  succes- 
sively granted  us,  and  the  love  you  bore  them,  the  constant 
sacrifices  of  your  own  childish  pleasures  to  enhance  theirs, 
only  strengthened  the  links  between  us,  and  instead  of  lessen- 
ing the  love  we  bore  you,  incalculably  increased  it.  All  was 
forgotten,  save  that  you  were  indeed  our  own. 

''  Nearly  three-and-twenty  years  have  passed  since  the 
day  which  made  you  ours  ; yet  never  have  we  heard  the  name 
of  Charles  Neville,  or  traced  his  course.  His  countenance,  his 
figure,  were  too  remarkable  ever  to  be  forgotten  or  mistaken, 
and  notwithstanding  the  lapse  of  years,  both  my  husband  and 
myself  would  have  recognised  him  on  the  instant,  had  he  ever 
crossed  our  path.  Every  inquiry  we  could  make  without  excit- 
ing suspicion  was  made  both  in  Italy  and  England,  but  all 
have  been  without  effect ; and  if  he  still  lives,  it  must  be 
under  some  other  name.  I have  seen  none  like  him,  none  who 
ever  recalled  his  features — I am  wrong,  I have  seen  one,  but 
the  image  was  faint  and  shadowy;  yet  it  brought  back  thoughts 
of  the  past  strangely  and  undefinably.  My  hand  fails  me — 
what  is  this  sudden  mist  ? Florence — my  child — 

* * * * * * 

The  last  line  was  almost  wholly  illegible,  the  words  ^‘Florence, 
my  child,’’  were  blotted,  as  if  the  pen  had  there  fallen ; and 
the  desire  to  conclude  and  to  conceal  those  momentous  records 
was  frustrated  by  the  stroke  of  unconsciousness,  and  of  death. 


CHAPTER  XLL 


THINKING  WHAT  THE  WORLD  WILL  SAY. — A STRANGE 
CIRCUMSTANCE. 


To  Lord  St.  Maur’s  great  surprise,  lie  found  his  wife  still  sitting 
up  awaiting  his  return,  and  evidently  feeling  no  inclination  to 
retire  to  rest.  Her  eyes  w^ere  heavy,  but  it  was  with  tears. 

Ida,  love,  what  has  chanced  ? ’’  he  asked.  ''  Is  that  poor 
girl  worse  ? No  : wLy,  that’s  w’-ell ; tlien  what’s  the  matter  ? 
If  3mu  w^ere  a sentimental  novel-reader,  I should  fancy  you  had 
met  with  some  delightful  w^ork  of  the  kind,  which  has  beguiled 
you  of  tears  far  too  precious  to  be  thus  wasted.  ” 

‘'  Would  they  had  been  so  called,  my  dear  husband.  I 
scarcely  know  how  to  tell  you  all  in  a few  words  ; and  j^et  I 
could  not  retire  to  rest  without  doing  so.  Do  not  look  so 
anxious ; it  is  nothing  concerning  myself,  but  much  for  my 
poor  Florence.” 

“ Florence  I why,  what  of  her  ? Does  she  repent  her  caprice 
in  rejecting  Howard,  and  wish  to  call  him  back  again  ? I am 
afraid,  in  that  case,  I cannot  help  her : she  should  have  thought 
twice  ere  she  decided,”  replied  the  Earl,  smiling. 

“ Pray  do  not  jest,  dearest  Edmund  ; my  tale  is  but  too 
serious  and  sad.”  And  briefly  she  narrated  her  interview  with 
Florence — its  terrible  communication,  and  its  confirmation  by 
the  manuscript  still  open  beside  her,  but  on  the  contents  of 
which  at  that  moment  Lady  St  Maur  did  not  enter. 

The  Earl’s  open  brow  contracted.  “I  would  not  speak  ill  of 
the  dead,”  he  said,  “but  Mrs.  Leslie  has  acted  wrongly ; she 
should  never  have  permitted  Florence  to  pass  as  her  own 
child.” 


240 


woman’s  rmENDSHIP. 


So  I felt  at  first ; but  I cannot  feel  it  now.  Think  of  the 
misery  poor  Florence  must  have  endured  from  the  moment  she 
emerged  from  childhood,  had  the  truth  been  known.” 

Better  than  such  misery  as  is  hers  now.  Measures  should 
have  been  taken,  instead  of  suppressing,  to  proclaim  the  truth 
— to  call  upon  all  who  had  been  accessory  to  the  marriage, 
real  or  pretended.  Some  clue  must  then  have  been  found,  and 
the  child  resigned  to  its  natural  guardian,  or  brought  up  by 
Mrs.  Leslie  under  its  own  name.” 

But  had  all  their  efforts  failed,  which,  from  the  perusal  of 
these  papers,  I think  most  likely — ^poor  Madeleine’s  tale  would 
have  been  rumoured  all  over  Italy  ; and  loving  her  as  she  did^ 
could  Mrs.  Leslie  have  borne  this  ? ” 

Yes,  if  it  had — which  it  might  have  done — proved  the 
legality  of  the  marriage.  That  proved,  if  she  still  wished  to 
adopt  the  child,  she  might  have  done  so  ; there  would  then 
have  been  no  need  to  hide  the  truth,  and  Florence  would  have 
been  so  spared  all  the  agony  of  this  discovery.” 

Agony  indeed  ; but  as  it  is — ” 

^^As  it  is,  I rejoice  that  she  is  now  so  rich  an  heiress  as  to  be 
independent  of  your  benevolence,  further  than  the  convenance 
of  general  society.” 

Lady  St.  Maur  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face,  in  bewildered 
inquiry.  What  can  you  mean,  my  dear  husband  ? How  can 
this  unfortunate  circumstance  affect  my  affection  for  and 
interest  in  Florence  ? ” 

‘^Easily,  my  dear  Ida.  Can  a person  of  such  doubtful  birth 
and  parentage  continue  a fit  companion  for  the  Countess  St. 
Maur?” 

And  why  not  ? ” replied  the  Countess,  laying  her  hand 
upon  her  husband’s  arm,  while  her  beautiful  eyes  glistened  with 
the  energy  of  her  appeal.  My  own  husband,  banish  such  a 
worldling’s  thought ! It  was  not  yourself  who  spoke.  You 
could  not  bid  me  forsake  one  I have  so  long  loved,  and  who 
has  shown  herself  so  worthy  of  that  love,  because  the  merest 
chance,  proceeding  from  the  uncontrollable  agony  of  the 
noblest  act  she  has  yet  performed,  has  revealed  a doubt — for 
it  is  nothing  more — upon  the  legitimacy  of  her  birth.  Bead 
these  papers,  and  you  will  feel  as  I do  : you  cannot  bid  me 
forsake  my  poor  friend  in  her  deep  misery.  Edmund,  you 
cannot  do  this  ? ” 

Thanks  to  your  sweet  eloquence,  my  Ida,  it  has  recalled 


woman’s  friendship. 


241 


my  better  nature  ; it  was,  indeed,  ivitli  a worldling  s tongue  I 
spoke,  thinking  what  the  world  would  say.” 

The  world  ! God  forbid  the  world  should  ever  know  it  ! 
Yet,  did  I forsake  her,  how  could  such  publicity  be  avoided  ? 
No,  not  even  to  Minie  would  I have  it  imparted.  Your 
honour  is  my  own  ; in  pledging  my  word  to  secrecy,  I under- 
took for  you  also,  my  husband.  Eead  but  these  papers  ; do 
not  decide  upon  my  future  treatment  to  Florence,  till  that  is 
/done  I willingly  wait  your  determination,  for  I know  what  it 
will  be.” 

Lord  St.  Maur  promised  to  do  all  she  desired,  on  condition 
that  she  would  take  the  rest  she  so  much  needed,  and  trust  his 
^eal  for  Florence’s  welfare  as  truly  as  her  own.  He  was  as 
good  as  his  word.  When  the  Countess  joined  him  in  the 
library  the  following  morning,  the  important  papers  had  been 
already  perused,  and  the  Earl  sat  with  his  hand  resting  upon 
them,  evidently  in  deep  thought : he  looked  up  as  his  wife 
‘entered,  and  spoke  with  some  emotion.  ‘^You  are  right, 
dearest : it  would  indeed  be  unnecessary  cruelty  to  make 
Elorence  pay  the  forfeit  of  that  villain  Neville’s  sin.  You 
.shall  still  be  her  friend,  my  Ida ; we  must  do  all  we  can  to  give 
back  the  peace  she  so  much  needs.” 

‘‘  And  Howard — is  there  a hope,  a chance  of  bringing  them 
again  together  ? The  blow  has  fallen  heaviest  there.  Why, 
why  did  these  fatal  papers  ever  reach  her  eye  ? Can  it  be  for 
good  ? ” 

‘Hda,  my  beloved,  it  is,  must  be,  or  it  would  not  have  been,” 
replied  her  husband.  We  must  endeavour  to  persuade  her, 
also,  that  so  it  is ; that,  in  being  thus  revealed  to  her,  the 
prayer  of  her  adopted  mother  has  been  heard  and 
granted.” 

I ought  to  believe  it,  Edmund,  but  indeed  it  is  difficult ; 
.and  Howard — she  would  shrink  in  natural  repugnance  from 
telling  him  the  truth  : but  cannot  you  or  I ? Surely  her  case 
does  not  come  within  the  pale  of  those  unfortunate  attach- 
ments he  SQ  lately  and  so  solemnly  forswore  ? ” 

The  Earl  looked  very  thoughtful  ere  he  replied.  ‘H  am  not 
quite  sure  whether  Howard,  with  his  peculiar,  perhaps  over- 
scrupula^is,  notions  as  to  the  purity  of  the  woman  he  loves, 
would  not  shrink  back  from  an  union  with  one  whose  father  is 
utterly  unknown,  save  as  a villain.  No;  Florence  has  decided 
not  only  nobly,  but  as  regards  Frank,  most  wisely.  Better  he 

R 


242 


woman’s  friendship. 


should  never  be  undeceived,  never  know  that  he  really  had 
power  over  a heart  like  hers.” 

But  then  is  not  his  happiness  sacrificed  as  well  as  hers  ? ” 

Only  for  a short  time ; whereas,  if  the  truth  be  revealed, 
he  will  be  tortured  by  various  contending  feelings,  likely  to 
ruin  his  peace  for  ever.  As  it  is,  believing  as  he  does  that  he 
has  been  rejected,  and  decisively,  a few  months  will  effect  his 
cure.” 

A few  months,  my  dear  Edmund  ! Does  man’s  love,  even 
gTanting  he  believes  it  unreturned,  last  only  that  period  ? ” 

“ Not  always  ; but  in  Howard  s case  I feel  assured  it  will 
last  no  longer.  You  will  be  shocked  and  disappointed,  my 
dear  Ida,  but  I confess  that  I never  shared  your  sanguine 
expectations  with  regard  to  this  union.  It  has  always  ap- 
peared to  me,  that  his  regard  for  her  was  more  like  a brothers 
than  a lovers — too  calm,  too  dispassionate,  for  love  in  a person 
like  Frank,  whose  feelings  are  never  of  the  quietest  kind.” 

‘'But  'still  currents  run  the  deepest,”’  replied  his  wife,  wdth 
a faint  smile. 

"Yes,  love,  in  all  passions  but  that  of  Love.  It  may, 
indeed,  be  concealed,  but  then  the  outward  man  will  suffer. 
Never  tell  me  that  Howard  would  not  have  visibly  suffered, 
had  Florence’s  dependent  situation  been  the  sole  obstacle  to 
the  declaration  of  his  affection.  If  he  had  really  loved,  and 
felt  that  love  was  hopeless  as  long  as  his  father  lived,  he  would 
either  have  fled  from  her,  or  been  hurried  into  an  avowal  of 
his  feelings.  I know  him  well  enough  to  be  quite  certain  that 
he  could  not  have  concealed  them.” 

"But  what  has  made  him  act  as  he  has  done  now?”  per- 
sisted Lady  St.  Maur.  " There  could  be  no  occasion  for  him 
to  make  her  an  offer,  if  he  really  did  not  love.” 

" I do  not  say  he  does  not  fancy  himself  in  love,  or  that  he 
has  not  done  so  some  time  ; but  only  that  one  of  these  days 
he  will  find  himself  mistaken,  and  that  bond  fide  love  will 
affect  him.  in  a very  different  manner.  Till  we  returned  to 
England,  he  was  so  immersed  in  politics,  in  studying  elocution, 
rhetoric,  and  such  things,  as  to  have  little  thought  and  less 
inclination  for  indiscriminate  female  society.  Your  interest  in 
Florence,  and  the  many  trials  she  had  undergone,  affected 
him,  and  inclined  him  towards  her.  The  last  few  months,  her 
bereavement,  and  its  sad  effect  upon  her,  of  course,  excited 
his  warmest  sympathy ; and  this  his  fancy  has  magnified  into 


woman’s  friendship. 


243 


a still  warmer  feeling.  He  has  no  belief  in  platonic  affection 
subsisting  between  the  sexes  ; and  therefore,  as  no  woman 
ever  interested  him  as  Florence  has  done,  he  fancies  it  must 
be  love.” 

^‘For  his  sake,  I hope  you  may  be  right,  but  for  my  poor 
friend  it  matters  little.  Yet,  should  your  suggestions  prove 
incorrect,  and  Frank  does  really  love  her,  will  you  not  make 
some  effort  to  bring  them  again  together  ?” 

Wait  till  Frank  returns  from  accompanying  Lord  Edgemmre 
on  his  pleasure  trip.  If  he  can  still  associate  with  Florence 
calmly,  and  find  pleasure  in  her  society  as  before,  take  my 
word  for  it  he  has  never  loved.  Eejection  may  be  cold  water 
on  love  s flame,  and  incite  pride,  and  all  kinds  of  petty 
feelings,  to  case  up  the  heart,  but  it  never  yet  so  conquered 
true  affection  as,  by  six  months’  absence,  to  permit  untroubled 
association  with  its  object.  You  smile — remember  I only 
spoke  of  Frank  when  I said  a few  months  wdll  effect  his  cure.” 

‘‘And  you  really  think  it  is  only  as  a brother  that  he  feels?” 

“ So  much  so  that  I was  rather  pleased  than  otherwise,  to 
hear  that  Florence  had  rejected  him ; fearing  that  he  might 
chance  to  discover  that  he  had  been  labouring  under  a delusion 
when  it  was  too  late.  But  I have  almost  forgotten  that  I had 
something  else  to  say  to  you  relative  to  or  rather  recalled  by 
these  papers.  Do  you  remember  a strange  circumstance 
mentioned  to  us  just  before  we  returned  home  tw^o  years 
ago  ?”  Lady  St.  Maur  did  not  remember  it.  “By  the  way, 
no  ; I do  not  think  you  were  present,  nor  indeed  has  it  ever 
crossed  my  mind  again  till  this  morning  : but  you  remember 
Herbert  Elford’s  love  of  exploring ! Well,  on  one  of  these 
occasions  he  remained  a day  or  two  at  a rustic  village  inn, 
near  the  source  of  the  Arno.  When  there,  the  host,  after 
many  apologies,  asked  him,  as  an  Englishman,  to  take  charge 
of  a small  ebony  casket  containing  some  papers,  which  he 
understood  were  English,  and  endeavour  to  discover  their 
rightful  owner.  He  confessed  that  in  his  youth,  when  per- 
forming the  part  of  ostler,  waiter,  and  many  others,  to  the 
late  mistress  of  the  inn,  he  had  believed  petty  larceny  no  sin, 
and  had  purloined  this  casket  or  case  from  a poor  woman  who 
had  come  there  in  great  distress,  given  birth  to  a dead  child, 
and  died.  They  had  never  known  who  or  w4iat  she  w^as, 
except  that  she  spoke  in  a strange  language.  Some  benevolent 
English,  who  had  arrived  there  by  chance,  had  her  decently 

R 2 


244 


woman’s  priendship. 


buried  in  the  church,  but  put  no  name  upon  the  tomb.  From 
the  great  beauty  of  the  casket,  he  thought  it  must  contain 
gems  or  coin,  and  had  removed  it  as  its  owner  lay  in  the 
stupor  of  death.  Never  hearing  any  inquiries  made  for  it,  he 
considered  his  prize  secure.  Instead,  however,  of  finding  gems, 
the  casket  contained  nothing  but  papers.  Thirteen  years 
afterwards  he  became  master  of  the  inn  ; but  for  some  time 
all  went  wrong  with  him,  and  he  began  to  feel  twinges  of 
conscience  for  past  misdemeanours.  He  betook  himself  to  a 
priest,  made  full  confession,  and  received  absolution,  coupled 
with  an  imperative  command  to  deliver  the  casket  and  its 
contents  to  the  first  English  traveller  who  would  take  them  in 
charge.  For  seven  years  he  had  not  seen  such  a person,  but 
the  prosperity  following  his  confession  had  convinced  him  that 
he  could  not  neglect  the  priest’s  charge,  now  an  opportunity 
offered,  without  calling  down  on  him  the  wrath  of  the  saints, 
and  so  he  entreated  Elford  to  release  him  of  his  burden. 
Damp  and  musty  papers,  however,  had  no  charm  for  one  so 
wild  and  volatile  as  Elford.  Had  the  lady  been  living,  the 
affair  might  have  looked  like  an  adventure,  and  been  welcomed 
accordingly ; but  as  she  was  dead,  and  the  child  too,  there 
could  be  nothing  in  it,  so  he  merely  glanced  his  eye  over 
them,  fancied  they  looked  like  love-letters,  and  returned  the 
casket  to  the  landlord,  advising  him  by  all  means  to  guard 
them  safely  still,  for  he  had  no  doubt  they  would  one  day  be 
claimed.  It  is  strange  how  completely  all  this  had  faded  from 
my  memory,  and  equally  strange  is  the  vividness  with  which 
it  has  all  been  recalled-  by  the  perusal  of  these  papers.” 

‘‘And  do  you  think  there  is  a probability  of  their  being 
connected  ?”  exclaimed  Lady  St.  Maur,  who  had  listened  to 
this  recital  with  intense  eagerness.  “ Can  we  procure  them  ? 
Could  we  but  remove  the  mystery  hanging  over  our  poor 
Florence,  there  might  be  happiness  in  store  for  her  yet.” 

“ My  dearest  Ida,  we  must  not  permit  the  hope  of  such  a 
chance  too  hastily.  Even  were  we  to  obtain  possession  of 
these  papers,  they  may  not  be  those  we  so  much  desire. 
The  outline  of  the  tale  alone  I remember ; there  may  have 
been  other  circumstances  narrated,  which  may  throw  completely 
a different  colouring  over  the  whole.  Where  Herbert  Elford 
is  at  present  I do  not  know,  nor  have  I much  chance  of 
tracing  him.  Do  not  look  so  disappointed,  my  dear  love,  I 
would  not  entirely  check  your  hopes,  but  I would  caution  you 


woman’s  friendship. 


245 


against  exciting  any  in  Florence.  All  we  must  endeavour  to 
do  is  to  soothe  her  back  into  tranquillity,  to  convince  her  that 
the  character  evinced  by  her  whole  conduct,  and  if  possible 
yet  more  nobly  in  her  resolution  with  regard  to  Frank,  is  alone 
remembered.  Do  you  do  this,  my  love,  and  trust  my  vigilance 
for  the  rest ; only  give  me  time.  A year,  perhaps  more,  may 
elapse  before  I can  obtain  these  much-desired  papers.” 

‘'I  will  try  to  be  patient,  Edmund;  but  it  will  be  very 
difficult ; however,  I will  follow  your  advice.  But  this  Charles 
Neville,  did  you  never  hear  of  or  meet  with  such  a person  ?” 

''  Never,  that  I can  recollect.  I greatly  fear  the  name  was 
but  assumed ; and  if  so,  I suspect  the  marriage,  however  duly 
performed,  registered,  and  witnessed,  will  not  hold  good. 
However,  I will  make  every  inquiry  that  I can  without 
exciting  curiosity,  and  meanwhile  we  must  hope  and  wait. 


CHAPTER  XLIL 


NOT  ALONE — CONSOLATION  IN  miENDSHI?. 


It  would  be  equally  needless  and  painful  to  linger  on  the 
long-continued  sufferings  of  poor  Florence,  before  the  energy 
of  life  in  any  way  returned.  Fever,  which  the  terrible  inward 
struggle  of  nearly  three  months’  continuance  had  excited,  was 
so  long  in  being  subdued,  that  Lord  and  Lady  St.  Maur,  even 
Sir  Charles  Brashleigh  himself,  more  than  once  trembled  less 
the  loss  of  either  life  or  reason  should  ensue  ; and  when  fever 
was  overcome,  it  seemed  as  if  she  must  sink  under  the  utter 
exhaustion  of  mind  and  frame  which  followed. 

Her  constitution,  however,  though  delicate,  was  good  ; and 
all  Lady  St.  Maur  s kindness  and  attention  were  devoted  to 
prove  that  she  was  dearer  to  her  friend  than  ever.  But  the 
heart  and  frame  had  received  too  severe  a shock  for  even 
affection  to  be  as  yet  of  much  avail.  After  weeks  of  uncon- 
scious agony,  she  did  indeed  appear  sensible  of  the  fond  cares 
which  she  received,  and  as  if  she  struggled  to  prove  that  she 
was  grateful ; but  the  expression  of  mournfulness  on  her 
sweet,  shadowy  face,  too  painfully  revealed  the  all-absorbing 
woe. 

Lady  St.  Maur’s  principal  care  was  to  conceal  Florence’s 
illness,  or  at  least  its  extent,  from  Minie ; and  to  do  so  re- 
quired no  little  skill,  both  from  her  own  extreme  truthfulness, 
which  shrunk  from  all  evasion,  and  that  the  correspondence 
between  the  sisters  never,  under  any  circumstances,  flaggede 
She  so  far  succeeded,  however,  as  to  satisfy  Minie,  who  wrotf 
a playful  reproach  to  Florence  for  not  taking  more  care  or 
herself,  and  commanding  her  not  to  think  of  writing  to  he. 


woman's  friendship. 


247 


till  Sir  Charles  gave  her  permission  so  to  do.  Perhaps,  had 
the  mind  of  the  young  girl  been  as  free  and  unoccupied  as 
when  she  had  first  joined  Lady  Mary,  she  would  have  been 
less  easily  satisfied  ; but  new  thoughts,  new  feelings,  whose 
ecstatic  enjoyment  had  never  even  been  dreamed  of  before,  had 
stolen  over  mind  and  heart ; and  when  Florence  again  awoke 
to  outward  things,  she  became  aware  of  a deeper,  fuller  tone 
in  her  sister  s letters,  irradiating  the  simplest  incident  or 
sentiment  as  by  a glow  of  summer  sunshine.  Whence 
emanated  that  irradiation  she  knew  not,  nor  did  Minie  reveal 
it.  The  young  girl  knew  she  felt ; but  it  was  a sensation  too 
sweet,  too  ethereal  for  aught  so  gross  as  words. 

As  soon  as  Sir  Charles  believed  that  his  patient  might  be 
removed  in  safety.  Lord  St.  Maur  and  his  family  gladly  left 
London  for  Amersley,  and  there  it  was  that  Florence  gradually 
and  painfully  became  conscious  that  life,  not  death,  was  her 
allotted  portion  ; that  for  some  wise  though  inscrutable  pur- 
pose she  was  doomed  to  drag  on  existence,  when  her  every 
prayer  had  been  for  death.  She  felt  marked  out  for  suffering ; 
not  a gleam  might  descend  on  her  blighted  heart  to  vivify  and 
bring  forth  hope.  Why  was  this  her  doom  ? Why  must  she 
bear  it  ? Alas ! who  has  not  felt  at  some  period  of  our  life, 
that  when  most  needed,  the  powder  of  prayer,  of  faith,  has 
departed  from  us,  and  even  by  our  God  we  are  forsaken  ; that 
we  can  no  longer  trace  the  love  in  which,  till  that  moment,  we 
thought  we  had  believed  ? 

In  the  prostration  of  bodily  and  mental  energy,  Florence 
felt  that  she  had  wilfully  and  needlessly  cast  happiness  from 
her ; that  she  had  weaved  her  own  fate,  and  therefore  must 
despair.  What  or  whom  had  she  to  live  for  now  ? The 
brightest  links  of  life  were  snapped  asunder,  and  love  she  had 
thrown  from  her;  her  heart  seemed  scorched  and  dried 
up  within  her ; every  feeling,  every  thought,  merged  in 
the  one  sickly  longing  to  fold  Minie  to  her  heart  and  die. 
Physical  weakness  had,  of  course,  much  to  do  with  this 
morbid  state  of  feeling.  Lady  St.  Maur,  sympathising  deeply 
with  her,  knew  not  in  what  way  to  rouse  or  give  her  comfort. 
Of  Howard  she  felt  as  if  she  could  not  speak,  for  she  had  no 
hope  to  give  : his  name  never  passed  the  lips  of  Florence;  but 
the  convulsive  contraction  of  her  features  whenever  Minie's 
artless  effusions  spoke  of  him,  which  they  did  very  often,  was 
all-sufficient  evidence  of  the  power  he  still  retained. 


248 


woman’s  friendship. 


Nothing  in  life  is  so  terrible  as  the  reaction  after  an  extra- 
ordinary self-sacrifice.  The  mind  almost  always  feels  as  if  it 
had  done  what  was  in  reality  needless,  and  might  have  been 
evaded.  Very  often  friends,  falsely  so  named  in  such  cases, 
add  to  this  pain  by  agreeing  with  us,  and  declaring  that  tho 
sacrifice  was  little  removed  from  folly,  instead  of  doing  all 
they  can  to  support  and  strengthen  the  feeble  and  sinking' 
spirit,  by  upholding  its  integrity,  and  affirming  their  convic- 
tion that  the  sacrifice  was  as  imperatively  demanded  as  nobly 
made.  There  are  so  few,  unhappily,  in  the  present  prosaic 
state  of  things,  who  can  thus  abnegate  self,  that  they  imagine 
all  who  can  and  do  to  be  under  the  influence  of  romantic 
delusion — a species  of  enthusiasm,  which  is  in  fact  to  such 
minds  but  another  word  for  madness.  Fortunately  for  Florence,, 
the  Earl  and  Countess  St.  Maur  were  not  of  these. 

Florence  had  been  sitting,  one  afternoon,  some  hours  at 
work — the  most  natural  but  the  worst  occupation  for  a mind 
diseased,  permitting  as  it  does,  thought  to  run  on  as  swiftly 
and  engrossingly  as  absolute  idleness.  She  worked  on  me- 
chanically till  twilight,  when,  believing  herself  alone,  sho 
started  up,  and  paced  the  room. 

Alone  ! alone  ! ” she  unconsciously  repeated  aloud.  Had 
I but  one  tie  amongst  the  living  or  the  dead,  but  one  to  call 
my  own  ; but  there  is  none — none  ; an  outcast — nameless 
— from  the  hour  of  my  birth  ! Oh,  what  a miserable  ingrate 
to  speak  thus,  when  love — love,  such  deep  love  has  been 
lavished  on  me  ; but  it  was  only  love — not  nature  ; and  now 
— now  even  that  is  gone ; the  very  dead  I may  not  call  my 
own.  Alone  ! Oh,  the  unutterable  anguish  of  that  word  ; 
without  one  link,  one  friend — ” 

Florence  ! ” said  a voice  of  mild  reproach ; “ have  you, 
indeed,  no  friend  ? ” 

Florence  started,  and  flinging  herself  passionately  on  the 
ottoman  at  the  Countess’s  feet,  she  hid  her  face  on  her  lap, 
and  sobbed  forth,  ‘‘  Forgive  me,  oh,  forgive  me ; I knew  not 
what  I said  ! Miserable,  ungrateful  as  I am,  oh,  do  not  throw 
me  off,  as  I deserve.  What  would  be  my  wretched  fate 
without  you  ? ” 

Hardly  worse  than,  by  your  own  words,  it  is  now,  Florence,”" 
replied  Lady  St.  Maur.  “ I would  indeed  be  your  friend,  but 
you  wull  not  permit  me  ; and  wrapping  yourself  in  your 
affliction,  heightening  it  by  imaginary  ills,  you  feel  and  act  as 
if  indeed  you  had  no  friend.” 


woman’s  feiendship. 


24» 


Imaginary ! ” repeated  Florence,  and  she  loosed  her  hold 
of  Lady  St.  Maur’s  hands,  clasped  her  own  tightly  together, 
and  turned  from  her. 

Yes,  dearest,  in  some  degree.  Now,  do  not  turn  from  me, 
as  if  I could  feel  no  sympathy  in  your  deep  sorrow.  I do  not- 
■ say  you  have  nothing  for  which  to  grieve,  but  why  increase 
your  trials  by  dwelling  upon  fanciful  evils,  till  your  mind 
becomes  enervated  instead  of  strengthened  ? Why  linger  on 
the  idea  that  every  link  is  snapped  between  you  and  those  you 
loved  so  well?  Can  the  love  of  three-and-twenty  years  be 
snapped  asunder  by  a word  ? Do  not  dwell  upon  such 
thoughts  as  you  gave  words  to  just  now,  my  Florence  ; they 
are  wrong,  sinful,  rebelling,  by  increasing  grief.” 

‘‘  But  she  is  gone — gone.  I can  never  return  the  weight 
of  love  she  has  borne  for  me ; never,  never  repay  the  debt  I 
owe  her,”  answered  Florence,  with  a burst  of  passionate  yet 
softening  tears. 

Do  not  say  so,  dearest.  If  you  can  recall  any  one  time 
when  you  refused  to  sacrifice  yourself  for  her,  these  thoughts 
may  be  permitted,  but  not  otherwise  ; but  this  you  cannot  do. 
You  cannot  tell  me  one  period  of  your  existence  in  which  you 
failed  in  duty  to  your  supposed  parents,  or  in  love  for  their 
children  ; and  therefore  do  not  weep  because  you  cannot  show 
it  farther  now.  Look  back,  and  bless  God  that  he  gave  you 
strength  to  act  as  you  have  done  ; that  as  Mrs.  Leslie  indeed 
filled  a mother’s  part  towards  you,  so  did  you  perform  a child’s 
towards  her.” 

Yes,  yes ; could  I think  only  of  this ; but  the  one  dark 
thought  will  come,  and  poison  all  the  rest.  I could  bear  the 
being  not  her  child,  but — ” and  the  softening  mood  was  con- 
quered by  that  of  bitter  agony,  and  the  relieving  tears  were 
frozen,  as  she  wildy  clasped  Lady  St.  Maurs  knees.  ‘‘Tell 
me,  only  tell  me  there  is  no  stain  upon  my  birth,  and  I can 
bear  all  else,  even — even  to  lose — ” Her  voice  was  choked. 

And  indeed  there  is  no  positive  proof,  my  Florence,” 
replied  the  Countess,  with  a voice  of  more  conviction  than  she 
felt;  ‘^all  must  be  conjecture;  yet  do  not  wholly  despair. 
All  now  is  dark,  and  seemingly  hopeless ; yet,  if  God  wills, 
dearest,  how  soon  all  may  be  made  light,  and  happiness  be 
again  your  own ; not  as  it  has  been,  perhaps,  but  more  en- 
during? Pvead  those  papers  again.  You  shudder,  as  if  the 
task  were  too  painful ; yet  I think  were  you  to  re-peruse  them. 


*250 


womah’s  friendship. 


you  would  believe,  as  your  adopted  mother  conjures  you  to 
believe,  that  there  is  no  stain  upon  your  birth ; that  poor 
Madeleine’s  dying  words  convinced  her  that  she  had  acquired 
some  positive  proof  that  her  child  was  legitimate  ; and  though 
no  such  proofs  were  found,  it  is  not  impossible  such  may  exist. 
And — ” She  paused,  remembering  her  husband’s  warning. 
But  Florence  could  not  hope  ; she  sank  back  on  her  low  seat, 
saying,  less  wildly,  but  with  heartrending  despondency — 

‘‘You  speak  but  to  comfort  me.  There  can  be  no  proof 
now.  It  would  have  come  to  light  long  ere  this,  w'ere  it 
possible.  But  no,  no,  it  cannot  be.” 

“ All  things  are  possible  with  God,  my  Florence  ; His  Provi- 
dence willed  that  instead  of  being  concealed,  as  intended,  the 
papers  should  fall  into  your  hands,  unfinished  as  they  .were* 
and  do  not  doubt  His  power  now.” 

“ And  why  was  it  thus  revealed  ? Why  at  such  a moment 
was  the  truth  made  known  ? Oh  ! better  far  that  I had  never 
known  myself  other  than  I am.” 

“Do  not  say  so,  Florence.  Had  you  always  knowm  the 
truth,  fancy  would  have  been  ever  at  work  to  make  your  life 
wretched.  Do  not  throw  such  reproach  upon  the  dead,  by 
whom  you  were  so  entirely  beloved,  that  she  burdened  herself 
with  this  fatal  secret  to  preserve  your  joys  unsullied  ; and  she 
would  have  borne  it  with  her  to  the  grave,  had  not  an  un- 
conquerable impulse  urged  her  to  its  disclosure.  Your  adopted 
mother’s  prayer  w^as,  that  it  might  never  be  known  unless  the 
concealment  threatened  deeper  misery  than  the  revelation. 
She  believed  her  prayer  wmuld  be  granted  ; try  and  believe  it 
too,  my  Florence,  and  be  comforted.” 

“Could  I but  forget  the  mystery  around  my  birth!”  ex- 
claimed Florence,  after  some  minutes’  tearful  silence.  “ But 
I cannot — cannot.  My  very  name  sounds  strange  and  false  ; 
I have  no  right  to  it.  They  hail  me  as  the  loved  and  cherished 
sister  of  the  poet  Walter ; him  whom  I so  loved  to  feel,  to 
glory  in  as  brother  1 And  Minie,  my  happy  Minie  1 how  may 
I bear  to  hear  her  call  me  sister,  to  cling  to  me  as  such 
again?” 

“ These  are  the  imaginary  ills  against  which  I would  warn 
you,  my  own  Florence,”  replied  the  Countess,  soothingly. 
“Natural  as  they  are,  strive,  pray  against  them,  till  they  are  in 
part  at  least  subdued.  Your  noble  deed — the  sacrifice  of 
woman’s  dearest,  most  precious  hopes — must  for  the  time  give 
you  all  enough  to  bear.” 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


251 


Florence  had  dropped  her  head  on  her  hands,  and  tears 
were  streaming  faster  than  before;  and  though  her  slight  frame 
shook  with  the  paroxysm,  Lady  St.  Maur  felt,  and  with  justice, 
that  they  gave  relief. 

“ You  do  not  regret  this  decision,  my  Florence,’^  she  said, 
after  a brief  pause.  ''You  do  not  heigliten  your  present 
sufferings  by  the  belief  that  the  sacrifice  was  unneeded  ? You 
would  not  recall  your  words  ? Much  as  you  are  now  enduring, 
believe  me,  oh,  believe  me,  it  is  slight  compared  to  what  it 
would  have  been,  had  you  thrown  yourself  on  his  generosity, 
and  revealed  the  truth ; or  had  you  concealed  it  and  accepted 
him,  you  would  have  failed  at  the  altar’s  foot.” 

" But  if  to  you,  to  Lord  St.  Maur,  my  agony  at  the — the 
stain  upon  my  birth  be  more  imaginary  than  real ; if  I am  not, 
as  I believed,  an  outcast  from  the  sympathy,  the  feelings  of 
my  fellow-men  ; if,  whatever  be  my  birth,  I can  never  be  other 
than  I have  been  to  those  who  love  me,  oh ! why  might  not 
the  truth  have  been  revealed  to  him,  and  yet  our  happiness 
secured?” 

It  was  difficult  to  look  on  that  pleading  face,  to  listen  to 
those  tremulous  words  unmoved ; they  told  a tale  even  then 
of  hope,  which  the  Countess,  after  her  late  conversation  with 
her  husband,  felt  that  she  dared  not  encourage. 

"Were  Francis  Howard  other  than  he  is,  my  Florence,  this 
might  be ; but  not,  not  with  him  ; he  might  not  draw  back, 
believing  he  had  gone  too  far ; but  trust  me,  dearest,  you  have 
better  secured  his  happiness  by  concealing  than  by  revealing 
the  truth.  He  loves  not  as  you  do,  Florence  ; if  he  do,  time 
will  not  change  him  ; there  may  be  happiness  still  in  store  for 
you  both.” 

" May  he  be  happy !”  murmured  Florence,  in  a tone  of  such 
submissive  resignation  that  the  Countess  involuntary  drew  her 
closer  to  her,  and  fondly  kissed  her  pallid  brow. 

"Yet  still  have  you  ties  to  bind  you  to  life,  my  Florence,” 
she  said  ; " still  have  you  memories  of  the  past,  to  prove  you 
were  not  saved  in  vain ; and  what  were  Minie’s  lot  without 
you  ? Now,  too,  that  you  have  competence,  nay,  wealth  per- 
mitting your  every  ambitious  wish  for  her  to  be  fulfilled.  You 
have  still  friends,  dearest,  friends  to  whom  your  happiness  is 
dearer  than  ever.  You  have  the  recollection  of  a life  of  virtue 
and  of  love  ; and  in  securing  the  happiness  of  others,  as  you 
have  ever  done,  you  may  be  laying  up  stores  for  your  own, 


252 


woman’s  friendship. 


which,  when  the  present  darkness  is  mercifully  removed,  will 
shine  the  lovelier  for  the  past  gloom.  Think  but  of  this,  en- 
deavour but  to  believe  that  some  good  must  arise  from  this 
deep  woe,  or  it  would  not  have  been  permitted ; and  endure  it 
nobly,  as  you  can  and  will.  Your  secret  is  known  but  to  Lord 
St.  Maur  and  myself ; and  you  knov\^  that  with  us  it  is  as  if 
it  were  not.  You  are  the  Florence  Leslie,  our  Florence,  which 
you  have  ever  been.” 

Florence  did  not  reply,  but  all  her  wildness  and  impatience 
had  passed  away  ; and  Lady  St.  Maur  felt  that  her  tears  were 
falling  fast. 

At  that  moment  Lord  St.  Maur  bounded  into  the  room^ 
from  the  balcony  on  which  the  window  opened,  exclaiming, 
‘Mda,  love ! I have  brought  you  a visitor — a truant,  yet  one 
you  will  be  glad  to  see.  Come  in,  Elliott,  man  ; what  do  you 
stay  there  for  ? ” 

But  his  companion  hesitated  ; his  glance  fixed  on  the  figure 
so  gracefully  and  almost  spiritually  brought  forward  in  the 
moonlight. 

‘^What!  Eonald  Elliott — my  own  sailor-cousin  ; how  glad 
I am  !”  exclaimed  the  Countess,  springing  up  with  the  joyous- 
ness and  elasticity  of  a girl.  And  Florence,  startled  and 
terrified  at  the  idea  of  a stranger,  hastily  withdrew. 


CHAPTER  XLIIL 


RONALD  ELLIOTT. — THE  TRUE  REFUGE. 


Our  readers  will  perhaps  be  less  incliued  to  welcome  a stranger 
than  was  the  Countess  St.  Maur.  To  her,  however,  the  new 
comer  was  no  stranger,  but  a near  relative ; and  as  such  we 
trust  a kinder  greeting  will  be  allowed  him  than  were  he  an 
interloper  in  our  narrative,  merely  dragged  in,  at  the  con- 
clusion, to  serve  our  own  purposes. 

‘'Yes,  Ronald,  dearest  Ida.  How  can  I thank  you  for  this 
most  kind  welcome  ? Happiness,  adulation,  and  a long  list  of 
honours  have  not  changed  you  : the  sound  of  your  dear  voice 
tells  me  that,  though  I can  scarcely  see  you,’’  replied  the 
young  sailor,  pressing  his  lips  to  the  fair  cheek  which  was 
yielded  to  him  as  freely  as  a sister’s,  and  grasping  her  hands 
in  both  his. 

“Changed?  not  a whit!”  replied  her  husband,  laughing. 
■“  Ida  St.  Maur  is  as  glad  to  see  you  as  ever  Ida  Villiers  was  ; 
and  what  is  more,  I am  not  jealous  ; so  drop  your  anchor  here 
as  long  as  you  please,  if  the  harbourage  be  good  enough  for  so 
renowned  a personage  as  Captain  Sir  Ronald  Elliott,  which  we 
must  dub  you  in  future.” 

“ Captain,  and  Sir  Ronald ! Why,  you  have  made  rapid 
strides  indeed,  cousin  sailor ; you  were  but  third  lieutenant,  I 
think,  when  we  last  met.” 

“ Hardly  that.  It  is  full  nine  years  since  I saw  you  ; but 
my  kind  uncle’s  influence  helped  me  even  after  we  had  lost 
him,  Ida.  So  I passed  my  examination  gloriously,  as  I think 
you  know,  and  then  to  rise  was  easy.” 

“ What ! even  to  be  captain  ? I think  your  own  abilities 


254 


woman’s  friendship. 


must  have  helped  you  still  more  than  my  dear  father’s  in- 
fluence ; but  I am  very  angry  with  you,  Ronald.  You  have 
not  written  me  a single  line  the  last  three  years.” 

I know  it,  my  kind  cousin,  and  deserve  to  lose  an  epaulette 
for  it.  But  we  have  been  from  one  end  of  the  world  almost 
to  the  other  in  that  time ; nearly  murdered  by  some  barbarous 
islanders ; then  wrecked,  and  for  a full  month  thrown  about 
on  the  wide  ocean  in  a little  cockle-shell  of  a boat,  which  I 
expected  every  hour  would  go  to  pieces;  nearly  starved,, 
and  made  such  objects  by  the  sun  and  wind  and  spray, 
that  you  never  would  have  known  me.  Then  we  hailed  land, 
and  imagined  anchorage  secure ; when,  behold,  it  was  but  a 
desert  island.  And  though  I was  not  quite  Robinson  Crusoe, 
having  still  some  faithful  comrades  with  me,  I assure  you 
Crusoe  himself  could  not  have  yearned  more  for  the  sight  of 
a ship  than  w^e  did.  I set  all  hands  to  work  to  make  a craft 
fit  for  sea  ; but  wdth  neither  tools  nor  proper  wood  nor  canvas, 
imagine  the  difficulties  of  our  task.  Still  we  would  not  be 
thrown  aback,  and  the  fourteen  months  we  were  there  passed 
quicker  in  their  vain  attempts,  than  had  we  made  none  at  all. 
At  length  w^e  succeeded ; our  craft  was  actually  seaworthy. 
We  launched  her,  loaded  her  with  the  roots,  grain,  and  fruit 
which  had  been  our  sole  mess  daring  our  solitude,  and  so 
tempted  old  ocean  again.  She  took  us  safely  to  a Spanish 
trader,  who  received  us  on  board,  took  our  craft  and  tackle  in 
tow  as  curious  specimens  of  nautical  ingenuity,  and  conveyed 
us  to  Brazil.  Thence  we  crowded  sail  for  old  England,  and 
after  storms  and  dangers  innumerable,  here  we  are ! The 
Lords  of  the  Admiralty  were  pleased  to  have  us  before  them, 
examined  my  log,  which  I have  contrived  to  keep  throughout 
all,  gave  all  my  brave  fellows  a lift  (I  had  lost  only  two),  made 
me  a captain,  and  I suppose,  from  their  report,  her  Majesty 
was  pleased  to  make  me  a baronet : why,  I cannot  imagine.  I 
did  nothing  more  than  every  British  sailor  would  have  done, 
under  the  same  circumstances.” 

‘‘  But,  with  all  your  toils  and  dangers,  you  are  as  handsome 
as  ever,  Ronald  ; somewhat  browner,  and  perhaps  thinner  and 
taller.  But  I should  have  known  you  anywhere.” 

Now  you.  would,  Ida  ; for  our  primitive  liie  in  the  island 
gave  us  all  back  our  good  looks,”  replied  the  young  officer, 
who,  as  lights  had  been  brought  in,  now  appeared  a frank, 
pleasant-looking  man  of  some  six  or  seven-and-twenty  years  ; 


woman’s  rHIENDSHIP.  255’ 

sunburnt,  certainl}^  but  as  his  eyes  and  hair  were  very  dark, 
such  marks  of  hard  service  proved  no  disfigurement. 

“ But  why  did  you  not  write  us  as  soon  as  you  reached 
Plymouth  ? ” inquired  Lord  St.  Maur. 

‘‘  Because  I did  not  know  that  you  were  in  England.  You 
were  in  Italy  when  Ida  last  wrote.” 

And  how  did  you  find  us  out  at  last  ? ” 

Why,  first  I crowded  sail  for  Lord  Edgemere’s,  but  found 
he  was  in  W^ales,  or  Scotland,  or  on  some  such  tack  ; than  I 
bethought  me  of  Lord  Melford.  And  as  I was  no  longer  the' 
rough  middy,  P^onald  Elliott,  whose  mother  did  such  a foolish 
thing  as  to  marry  a poor  lieutenant,  and  her  brother  Lord 
Edgemere  a still  more  shocking  thing,  as  to  forgive  the  runaway 
match,  and  receive  her  and  her  fatherless  boy  into  favour,  but 
a captain  and  a baronet,  why  I thought  they  might  deign  to 
speak  to  me  : so  I took  them  by  surprise,  was  received  most 
graciously,  heard  you  were  here,  and  was  off  again  in  a twink- 
ling; for  no  harbourage  was  ever  so  safe  and  happy  for  Bonald 
Elliott  as  where  his  cousin  Ida  is  to  be  found.” 

I thought  sailors  were  too  honest  ever  to  flatter,”  replied 
the  Countess,  laughing. 

^‘Ida,  you  know  it  to  be  truth!  It  was  all  through  you  my 
poor  wfidowed  mother  ^vas  forgiven,  though  you  were  but  a girl 
of  fourteen.  You  attended  her  long  illness  and  death,  wdth 
all  the  devotedness  and  care  of  a daughter — gave  me  the  love 
of  an  elder  sister — made  every  one  treat  me  as  your  brother. 
Oh,  how  proud  and  cold  you  looked  and  spoke  if  any  one 
dared  look  dov/n  on  me  ; nor  rested  till  my  ardent  wishes  were 
fulfilled  and  I was  a sailor.  And  was  this  all  ? No,  Ida,  no  ; 
if  I have  indeed  attained  to  steadiness,  and  manliness,  and 
wmrth,  to  you  I owe  it  all ; your  affection,  your  example,  your 
counsels,  have  made  me  what  I am.” 

It  was  impossible  to  doubt  the  sincerity  of  those  blunt  and 
rapid  wmrds.  His  hands  trembled,  his  lip  quivered,  and  then, 
as  if  to  banish  every  trace  of  emotion,  he  laughingly  inquired. 
Who  was  that  graceful  figure  I saw  sitting  (like  Niobe,  all 
tears)  at  your  feet,  when  St.  Maur  hurried  me  so  irreverently 
through  the  wundow  ? She  could  not  have  thrown  herself 
into  a more  becoming  attitude  for  effect,  particularly  as  the 
moonlight  streamed  upon  her.” 

''Eflect!  poor  girl,  the  last  thing  in  her  mind  at  that 
moment.  She  is  a young  friend  of  mine,  and  just  at  present 


256 


•^YOMAN’s  FllIENDSHIP. 


in  great  affliction.  You  will  probably  see  her  to-morrow  ; but 
I warn  you,  you  will  be  disappointed  if  you  expect  anything 
Temarkable.  She  is  ill  and  in  sorrow,  and  not  at  all  likely  to 
attract  such  a laughter-loving  person  as  yourself.’’ 

The  return  of  young  Elliott  was  a source  of  real  rejoicing 
both  to  the  Countess  and  her  husband.  They  had  lost  all 
trace  of  him  so  long,  that  both  had  feared  more  than  either 
liked  to  express.  Florence  had  often  heard  Lady  St.  Maur 
allude  to  her  cousin,  even  during  their  first  intimacy  at  St. 
John’s,  as  wishing  she  could  see  him  before  she  left  England  ; 
and  she  could  therefore  well  sympathise  in  the  joy  with  which 
her  friend  sought  her  before  retiring  to  rest,  to  communicate 
the  happy  tidings  of  his  unexpected  return. 

Suffering  as  their  long  conversation  had  been  to  Florence,  it 
was  yet,  as  Lord  St.  Maur  had  predicted,  productive  of  good. 
Her  mind  gradually  resumed  a more  healthy  tone.  Happy 
indeed,  how  could  she  be  ? But  the  morbid  anguish,  which 
turned  every  memory  into  suffering,  subsided.  Although  at 
first  shrinking  from  the  task  as  increase  of  misery,  she  followed 
Lady  St.  Maur’s  advice,  and  re-read  the  MS.  And  though 
her  tears  fell  fast  and  unrestrainedly,  the  heavy  weight  on  mind 
and  heart  gave  way.  She  could  now  feel  the  full  extent  of 
love  borne  towards  her  by  her  adopted  mother.  In  her  first 
perusal  the  truth  had  burst  upon  her  with  a shock  and  agony 
which  bewildered  every  faculty.  She  was  only  sensible  that 
she  was  the  child  of  misery  and  shame.  Now  she  read 
differently.  Her  adopted  mother’s  fond  appeal  seemed  to  sink 
upon  her  heart,  bidding  her  trust  in  God,  and  believe  that 
those  papers  were  indeed  revealed  but  for  good.  She  guessed 
not  wherefore,  and  she  asked  not.  The  struggle  was  dark  and 
terrible,  known  only  to  the  Leader  of  all  hearts  ; but  at  length 
that  gentle  spirit  was  enabled  to  merge  every  individual  feeling 
in  the  one  deep,  earnest  prayer  for  the  happiness  of  one  ! 

Let  him  be  happy,  even  if  to  be  so  he  must  forget  me  and 
love  another.”  Could  those  voiceless  orisons  have  found  vent 
in  wwds  such  would  they  have  been.  ‘‘  I ask  but  to  be  the 
unknown  instrument  working  his  happier  fate  ; but  if  even 
this  be  denied  me — if  our  paths  must  indeed  be  severed,  and 
for  ever — still,  still,  let  him  be  happy.  And  for  me — oh ! 
Father  of  Mercy,  lift  up  this  yearning  heart  to  Thee  ! ” 

There  was  no  wild  enthusiasm  in  her  prayer.  Days,  nights, 
aye,  wrecks  had  passed,  ere  her  seared  heart  could  frame  it  in 


woman’s  friendship. 


257 


sincerity  and  truth,  and  even  in  secret  prayer  dash  down  all 
individual  hope.  It  was  not  that  she  had  loved  him  with 
unreturned  affection.  She  was  not  likely,  at  such  a moment, 
to  think  with  Lord  St.  Maur,  had  she  known  his  suspicions, 
that  Howard  felt  but  a brother’s  love.  But  she  never  wavered 
in  her  unselfish  prayer.  She  roused  every  energy,  by  the  con- 
quest of  self,  through  constant  and  beneficial  employment,  to 
assist  in  its  fulfilment.  She  was  not  one  of  those  who  think 
that  prayer,  even  for  the  subjection  of  feeling,  is  sufficient 
without  deed.  She  knew  she  must  help  herself  as  well  as 
pray,  and  trust  on  the  help  that  to  all  who  seek  it  is  given 
from  on  high.  She  found  support,  too,  in  the  consciousness  of 
her  own  integrity,  a support  which,  had  Lady  St.  Maur  sought 
to  persuade  her  that  her  mighty  sacrifice  had  been  uncalled  for, 
must  have  been  denied  her;  and  when  even  the  sweet  dream  of 
his  love  was  loosed  by  his  own  words  from  the  fibres  of  her 
heart,  she  found  that  strength  had  indeed  been  given  to  act 
as  she  had  prayed. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 


THE  FAMILY  TOUH. 


Francis  Howard  did  not  linger  long  in  London  after  liis 
rejection  by  Florence  ; he  joined  Lord  Edgemere  s family,  who 
were  then  at  the  Isle  of  Anglesea,  in  a much  shorter  time  than 
gentlemen  in  his  forlorn  situation  generally  take  to  recover 
their  equilibrium.  He  pondered  again  and  again  over  the 
conduct  of  Florence,  and  also  over  his  own.  He  certainly 
never  had  given  her  any  right  to  suppose  his  attentions  devoted 
until  lately,  and,  therefore,  could  have  no  reason  to  imagine 
she  had  ever  shown  such  preference  for  his  society  as  to  cause 
any  present  belief  that  she  had  treated  him  ill.  He  thought 
that  she  certainly  had  not  seemed  to  dislike  his  society  and 
conversation.  Dislike?  No!  But,’’  mentally  argued  the 
young  politician,  ^Hhere  is  a wide  space  between  not  disliking 
and  love.  Now  I could  not  go  hang  or  drown  myself,  as  I hear 
some  despairing  lovers  talk  of  doing.  Nay,  if  it  were  not  for 
very  awkwardness,  I should  have  much  preferred  still  lingering 
in  her  mild,  rational  society,  than  seeking  others.  I wish  she 
could  have  loved  me  : mine  may  not  have  been  the  wild, 
passionate  emotion  of  some  that  I know ; but  it  was  one  I 
think  which  would  have  made  us  both  happy,  could  she  but 
have  loved  me.  I never  knew  what  female  companionship  and 
society  were  till  I knew  her,  and  I could  have  wished  to  secure 
them  mine,  could  I have  made  her  happy  as  I hoped ; but 
may  I not  still  do  so  ? or  is  her  rejection  final?  Yes — and  I 
am  much  mistaken  if  she  do  not  love  another;  but  who — who 
has  gained  her  affections  ? It  is  all  mystery ; but  there  was 
more  in  her  manner  than  met  my  eye.  Well,  well,  be  it  so  ; 
I trust  when  we  next  meet,  it  will  be  still  as  the  friends  which 
we  have  been.” 


woman’s  friendship. 


259 


Could  Lord  St.  Maur  have  heard  this  mental  soliloquy,  he 
'Certainly  would  have  had  his  suspicions  confirmed.  Francis 
Howard  was  much  too  unselfish  and  noble  a person  to  entertain 
any  petty  and  unworthy  feelings,  even  had  he  considered 
himself  injured  by  his  rejection.  But  the  above  quiet,  un- 
impassioned train  of  thought  was  not  that  of  a man  ardent  in 
his  suit.  His  belief,  too,  that  Florence  loved  another,  ably 
aided  him  to  conquer  the  delusion  which  had  engrossed  him, 
and  before  he  had  been  a month  with  Lord  Edgemere,  he  felt 
himself  once  more  a free  man. 

Now,  let  us  not  be  accused  of  making  our  hero  a very  un- 
interesting and  most  capricious  personage.  Frank  did  love 
Florence  with  mo^t  unselfish  love ; esteemed,  admired  her ; 
felt  that  had  Heaven  blessed  him  with  such  a sister,  his  lot 
xrould  have  been  happy  as  earth  could  make  it ; and  as  woman 
had  never  so  arrested  a fleeting  thought  before,  he  imagined 
the  feeling  deeper  than  in  reality  it  was  ; cherished  it,  dwelt 
upon  it,  till  he  began  to  think  why  should  he  repine  that 
Heaven  had  denied  him  such  a sister,  when  love  might  give 
him  such  a bride  ? His  rejection  removed  the  delusive  glow 
of  fancy,  and  his  feelings  gradually  subsided  into  their 
original  repose. 

It  was  a merry,  though  a small  party  that  he  joined ; 
although  it  so  happened  that  himself  and  Alfred  Melford  were 
the  only  single  men  amongst  them.  Melford  was,  of  course, 
always  the  attache  of  his  fair  betrothed.  Minie  Leslie  sported 
gaily  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  party ; sometimes  the  charge 
of  the  Earl  himself,  who  was  very  fond  of  her  ; at  others  the 
chosen  companion  of  Lord  Henry  Villiers,  whose  wife  was  not 
quite  strong  enough  for  the  long  exploring  rambles  which  he 
preferred,  and  which  Minie  was  only  too  happy  to  join;  at 
others  sharing  joyously  the  lively  excursions  of  Viscount 
Villiers,  Lord  Edgemere’s  grandson  and  heir,  a fine  boy  of 
fourteen,  the  pet  of  the  family.  Except  in  her  tete-a-tete 
rambles  with  Melford,  however.  Lady  Mary  always  considered 
and  treated  Minie  as  her  own  especial  charge,  and  under  her 
fostering  care  and  kindness  the  young  girl  had  overcome  the 
shock  of  her  mother’s  death,  and  though  more  often  shadowed 
than  formerly,  her  natural  liveliness  had  almost  entirely 
returned,  and  with  renovated  health,  yet  more  dazzling  beauty. 
Not  the  most  callous  could  have  looked  at  her  at  any  time 
with  indifference,  and  more  particularly  when  returning, 

S 2 


260 


WOMANS  FRIENDSHIP. 


glowing  with  health  and  enjoyment,  from  a ramble,  or 
springing  up  the  rocky  heights  of  Wales,  leaving  all  her  com- 
panions, even  the  young  Lord  Villiers  himself,  far  behind  her ; 
pausing  but  to  look  back  with  laughing  triumph,  and  seeming^ 
from  her  light,  exquisitely  graceful  figure,  her  sunny  ringlets^ 
and  lovely  face,  the  very  spirit  of  the  scenes  she  loved. 

It  was  not  a very  unlikely  state  of  things,  therefore,  that 
when  How^ard  joined  them,  Minie  should  fall  to  his  especial 
care,  particularly  in  those  excursions  taken  by  all  the  party  ; 
or  that  being  mutually  pleased,  they  should  come  together 
tete-a-tete.  Minie  was  scarcely  eighteen,  and  so  completely  a 
child,  that  no  awkwardness  ever  marked  her  manner.  She 
had  not  learned  ever  to  suppress  a feeling  or  a sentiment. 
Full  of  grateful  devotion  towards  her  friends,  though  she 
never  forgot  to  evince  respect,  she  mingled  with  and  caressed 
them  as  a loving  child,  winning  the  affections  of  all,  almost 
unconsciously,  in  return. 

At  first  she  was  delighted  that  Frank  had  joined  them,, 
because  she  could  talk  to  him,  and  he  could  tell  her  of 
Florence — her  own  dear  Florence  ! And  then  her  rambles  sud- 
denly became  more  delightful  than  they  had  ever  been ; and  next,, 
she  felt  strangely  disinclined  for  any  other  companion,  or,  at 
least,  they  fell  far  short  in  agreeableness  to  Mr.  Howard  ; and 
then,  her  solitary  walks  became  endowed  with  a sort  of  delicious 
dreamy  trance,  which  she  had  never  experienced  before ; and 
still  the  simple  girl  guessed  not,  dreamed  not,  the  nature  of 
the  emotion  which  was  engrossing  her ; she  only  knew  that 
happy  as  she  had  been  before,  she  was  infinitely  happier  now  ; 
innocent  as  she  was,  she  could  no  more  have  concealed  the 
sudden  glittering  of  the  dark  blue  eye,  the  flushing  of  the 
delicate  cheek,  which  greeted  Frank  whenever  he  appeared, 
how^ever  often  in  the  day,  than  she  could  have  defined  why 
this  should  be.  Lady  Mary,  too,  happy  in  her  own  engage- 
ment, and  finding  sufficient  employment  in  being  with  or 
thinking  of  Melford,  did  not  notice  these  little  equivocal 
signs,  or  if  she  did,  perhaps  secretly  enjoyed  the  idea  of  her 
lovely  protegees  captivating  one  of  the  handsomest  and  most 
engaging  young  men  of  the  day.  However  this  might  be,  she 
resolved  not  to  breathe  one  word  to  awake  Minie  to  the  true 
state  of  her  feelings  : it  would  either  create  foolish  ideas  in 
the  child’s  head,  or  make  her  restless  and  unhappy  by  striving 
to  conceal,  if  she  could  not  conquer,  her  feelings.  No  \ things 


woman’s  feiendship. 


261 


should  take  their  own  course,  and  she  only  hoped  Prank  would 
finally  be  caught ; it  would  be  such  rare  diversion  to  see  so 
reserved  a sort  of  personage,  when  women  were  in  the  question, 
fairly  in  love.  The  other  members  of  the  family,  accustomed 
to  regard  Minie  as  quite  a child,  either  did  not  observe  or 
thought  nothing  of  her  evident  pleasure  in  his  society  and 
conversation.  So  small  a share  of  kindness  and  notice  could 
delight  her,  that  it  was  no  wonder  she  found  pleasure  in 
receiving  it  from  him.  She  was  considered  too  young,  too 
innocent  to  form  any  deeper  feeling. 

For  Francis  himself,  he  at  first  supposed  it  was  on  account 
of  his  regard  for  Florence  that  he  felt  so  perfectly  satisfied 
with  the  beautiful  charge  assigned  him,  that  he  was  never 
weary  of  listening  to  Minie’s  conversation  of  her  cherished 
sister,  and  many  a tale  of  Florence’s  devotedness  in  their  days 
of  privation  and  suffering  did  those  young  lips  pour  forth  with 
a natural  eloquence  which  reached  the  inmost  heart.  He 
listened  enraptured,  believing  it  all  for  Florence’s  sake  ; yet 
in  his  solitary  hours  it  was  the  sylph-like  form,  the  lovely 
face,  the  silver-toned  voice  of  Minie  which  haunted  him 
sleeping  or  waking,  not  the  subject  of  her  tale  ; and  then  he 
met  again  the  beaming  eye  and  flushed  cheek,  and  his  heart 
Avhispered,  were  not  these  signs  proofs  of  no  indifference  on 
her  part  ? He  watched  her  closely  ; he  could  not  define  it, 
but  there  certainly  was  a slight  difference  between  her  manner 
to  him  and  that  to  others.  Once  he  had  come  upon  her 
suddenly,  as  she  was  attempting  to  sketch  an  old  tree  before 
the  party  set  off,  and  her  hand  so  trembled  as  quite  to  prevent 
the  completion  of  her  task,  and  they  were  called  to  the 
carriage  with  it  still  unfinished.  And  yet  she  looked  so 
happy.  Then  during  the  anxious  period  of  Florence’s  illness, 
though  neither  Minie  nor  Frank  knew  its  extent,  or  imagined 
its  cause,  it  was  a common  source  of  interest  to  both ; and 
Minie  seemed  to  look  up  to  him  so  confidingly  not  only  for 
the  first  intelligence  from  the  post,  but  for  sympathy  also.  And 
whereas  she  was  at  first  so  anxious  on  account  of  her  sister, 
that  even  her  beloved  music  lost  its  balm,  it  was  Howard’s 
persuasion  which  again  called  it  forth,  making  that  sweet 
voice  once  more  lose  itself  in  the  gushing  song,  as  he  hung 
over  her  entranced.  Was  it  the  illness  of  poor  Florence  or 
Minie’s  tearful  eye  and  pale  cheek  which  so  engrossed  him  ? 
If  the  first,  it  was  strange  that  he  did  not  think  more  of 


262 


woman’s  feiendsiiip. 


alleviating  Florence’s  malady,  and  how  to  soothe  and  comfort 
her  sister’s  sorrow  on  account  of  it.  Strange  that  he  could 
rest  so  easily  satisfied  of  her  well-doing  under  the  care  of 
Sir  Charles  Brashleigh  and  Lady  St.  Maur,  and  linger  so 
continually  by  the  side  of  Minie,  using  all  the  eloquence  of 
words  and  manner,  and  bringing  out  all  the  treasures  of  his 
mind  to  while  her  into  cheerfulness  again. 

There  is  no  balm  so  effectual  for  the  lingering  soreness  of 
rejection  as  the  consciousness  of  being  beloved  by  another. 
Men  are  sometimes  accused  of  marrying  in  pique,  and  not 
for  love  : yet,  perhaps,  all  such  unions  are  not  unhappy.  The 
heart  cannot  rest  desolate,  and  the  faintest  sign  of  interest, 
of  undesignedly  revealed  affection,  is  hailed  at  such  moments 
as  filling  up  the  void  within,  exciting  another  sympathy,  and 
recalling  the  self-esteem  which  sinks  for  the  moment  beneath 
the  pang  of  unreturned  affection.  Now,  we  know  Frank  did 
not  really  and  passionately  love  Florence,  though  he  fancied 
he  did;  but  yet  he  was  disappointed,  and  his  whole  soul  pined 
and  yearned  for  female  sympathy  and  love  ; and  once,  when 
the  thought  did  cross  his  mind  that  Minie  was  not  indifferent 
to  him,  that  she  could,  if  she  did  not  already,  love  him,  the 
idea  was  fraught  with  such  ecstasy  that  he  absolutely  started. 
Had  he  so  soon  forgotten  Florence  ? he  asked  himself,  angry 
at  his  own  fickleness.  No  ; his  regard  for  her  seemed  not  a 
whit  abated ; yet  if  it  were  love  he  now  felt,  he  had  never 
loved  Florence,  for  the  emotions  were  as  distinct  as  possible. 
He  was  perplexed  and  annoyed  at  himself ; yet  to  behold 
Minie  s exquisite  beauty,  so  to  revel  in  her  thrilling  voice  as 
to  feel  its  echo  in  his  inmost  soul,  to  look  in  those  soft  eyes 
when  they  glanced  up  so  timidly  yet  so  innocently  in  his,  ever 
to  feel  that  she  clung  to  him  for  support  and  guidance  in 
some  of  their  precarious  rambles — all  this  created  such  new 
yet  such  exquisite  sensations,  that  by  the  time  they  reached 
Scotland  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  must  bo  in 
love  ; and  if  he  were,  he  certainly  had  never  been  in  love 
before; 

He  satisfied  himself  at  length  that  the  difference  must  have 
originated  in  the  fact,  that  by  Minie  he  was  beloved,  and  by 
Florence  he  was  not.  How  little  did  he  imagine,  that  the 
controlled  and  subdued  exterior  of  the  latter  was  but  the 
proof  of  her  love  for  him  ; that  all  deep  emotions  with  her 
were  under  such  powerful  restraint,  that  they  could  not  break 


tvoman’s  peiendship. 


263 

their  bonds*  Hers  was  woman’s  love,  deep,  still,  omnipotent ; 
Minie’s  was  the  first  fresh-spring  of  girlhood,  as  true,  per- 
chance as  fond,  hut  spurning  alike  restraint  and  concealment, 
because  its  source  was  hidden  from  herself.  Florence  could 
resign  that  love,  if  to  do  so  might  secure  the  happiness  of  its 
object,  better  than  to  manifest  it ; she  could  resign  it  and  yet 
live,  feeling  that 

The  heart  may  break,  yet  brokenly  live  on.” 

Millie,  had  her  love  been  severed  from  its  object,  might 
perhaps  have  buried  it  in  her  heart  awhile ; but  then  she 
would  have  drooped  and  died. 

Still  Howard  watched  well ; still  was  the  idea  that  he  was 
beloved  too  precious,  too  consoling  to  be  risked  by  an  avowal. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  he  was  deceived,  and  Minie’s  engaging 
artlessness  and  innocent  confidence  were  only  fancied  love. 
It  was  strange  that  in  all  these  incongruities  of  feeling,  the 
thought  of  his  father  never  intruded.  Minie  was  very  nearly 
the  same  in  point  of  fortune  as  her  sister  had  been  when  he 
first  knew  her,  and  Lord  Glenvylle’s  consent  just  as  unlikely 
to  be  gained  ; yet  Frank  never  thought  about  that,  thus 
confirming  Lord  St.  Maur’s  belief,  that  had  he  really  loved 
Florence,  he  woulcj  never  have  been  so  long  quiet  on  the 
subject. 


CHAPTEE  XLV. 


AN  ACCIDENT  AND  ITS  EEEECT. 


Four,  five  months  had  passed  since  Lord  Edgemere’s  family 
commenced  their  tour.  Wales,  the  Lakes,  the  Borders — by 
Scott’s  immortalizing  pen  made  famous — Melrose,  Abbotsford, 
and  Auld  Reekie  herself,  had  all  been  visited ; and  never, 
certainly,  had  tourist  been  more  alive  to  the  beauties  of 
nature,  or  more  inclined  to  enjoy  the  delights  and  love  the 
disagreeables  of  travelling,  than  this  happy  party.  An  un- 
looked-for rencontre  greatly  heightened  Lady  Mary’s  and 
Melford’s  enjoyment.  At  the  house  of  a friend  in  Edinburgh 
they  happened  to  meet  the  identical  Mrs.  Major  Hardwicke, 
who,  when  Flora  Leslie,  had  occasioned  Florence  so  much 
misery.  That  her  marriage  had  been  productive  of  as  much 
happiness  as  is  generally  found  in  elopements  (^.  e.,  none  at 
all)  was  not  sufficient  for  Melford.  He  had  resolved  that  she 
should  know  that  her  nefarious  plans  had  all  failed  in  their 
intended  effect  of  estranging  Florence  from  Lady  St.  Maur, 
and  smart  under  the  knowledge.  He  succeeded  to  his  heart’s 
content  : although  fairly  puzzled  as  to  whether  or  not  he  had 
identified  her  with  the  Flora  Leslie  of  whom  he  spoke,  she 
winced  under  his  words.  He  had  commenced  the  subject  so 
naturally,  and  led  her  to  listen  with  such  professional  skill  (be 
it  remembered  he  was  a barrister),  that  there  was  no  retreat, 
no  possibility  of  changing  the  subject.  And  both  Melford 
and  Lady  Mary,  with  pardonable  satisfaction,  rejoiced  in  the 
pain  and  terror  lest  she  should  betray  her  own  identity, 
which  the  former’s  quiet  conversation  caused.  She  never  met 
them  again ; but  Florence  was  fully  avenged ; far  more  so, 


woman’s  miENDSIIIP. 


265 


indeed,  than  her  own  forgiving  spirit  would  have  either 
permitted  or  approved. 

The  middle  of  December  was  to  find  Lord  Edgemere’s  party 
at  home  again,  in  their  fine  old  baronial  mansion,  within  a 
seven-mile  ride  of  Amersley  ; and  it  was  about  the  com- 
mencement of  November  that  they  were  comfortably  ensconced 
for  a week  or  ten  days  in  a picturesque  little  hotel  on  the 
banks  of  Loch  Lomond,  enjoying  the  full  beauty  of  the 
autumnal  tints  in  the  magnificent  scenery  around  them. 

“What  has  become  of  Frank  this  morning?”  inquired  Lady 
Mary,  entering  the  luncheon-room  one  day,  followed  by  her 
faithful  cavalier,  Alfred  Melford,  with  whom  the  morning  had 
been  passed  in  a tete-a-tete  ramble. 

“ Nobody  seems  to  know.  Minie,  you  are  generally 
acquainted  with  his  movements.  What  has  become  of  him — 
can  you  tell  ?” 

“ Indeed,  you  make  me  a person  of  infinitely  more  impor- 
tance than  I am,  my  dear  Lady  Mary,”  she  innocently  replied, 
perfectly  unconscious  that  the  question  was  so  marked ; “I 
only  know  he  said  something  last  night  about  exploring  some 
rocky  fall  or  other,  too  dangerous  for  the  soberly  inclined,  and 
even  for  me ; and  too  adventurous  for  you  and  Mr.  Melford, 
as  it  needed  rather  more  caution  than  you  would  just  at 
present  be  inclined  to  take,”  she  added,  with  a mischievous 
smile. 

“ He  is  very  impertinent — and  so  are  you.  Miss  Minie,  for 
repeating  and  enjoying  his  pertness,”  replied  Lady  Mary, 
threateningly  holding  up  her  hand. 

“ By  the  way,  so  he  did ; I remember  it  now,”  exclaimed 
Melford,  at  the  same  moment. 

“ How  came  you  to  be  so  wonderfully  oblivious,  my  learned 
oounsellor  ? ” said  Lord  Edgemere,  laughing. 

“ Eyes,  ears,  and  mind  were  all  so  pleasurably  employed  in 
the  present  tense,  that  memory  had  no  space  for  the  past,  my 
lord,  though  it  only  extended  to  last  night,”  replied  the  young 
man,  laughing  also.  “ But  he  ought  to  be  at  home  now,  for 
^he  promised  not  to  be  later  than  two.” 

“I  only  hope  his  love  of  adventure  will  not  end  in  an  acci- 
dent. Those  brakes  and  hollows  which  he  resolved  to  explore 
are  full  of  hidden  dangers.  If  either  his  horse  s or  his  own 
foot  slip,  I would  not  answer  for  the  consequences,”  quietly 
observed  Lord  Henry  Villiers. 


266 


woman’s  friendship. 


Oh,  never  fear  for  him,”  answered  Melford,  he  has  more 
lives  than  a cat,  or  he  would  have  been  dead  long  ago.  I 
warned  him  how  dreadfully  slippery  the  heavy  rains  had  made 
the  unfrequented  roads,  but  he  only  laughed  at  me.” 

''Minie!  have  you  been  out  this  morning?  You  have  either 
taken  too  long  a walk,  or  not  been  out  at  all,  for  you  are  as 
white  as  your  collar.  Mamma,  why  did  you  not  keep  her  in 
better  order  ? ” said  Lady  Mary,  fixing  a very  meaning  look 
on  the  young  girl’s  face,  whose  paleness  was  instantly  lost  in  a 
glowing  blush  ; and  she  answered,  hurriedly,  Indeed,  I have 
been  out.  Algernon  took  me  a lovely  walk,  though  not  as 
long  a one  as  usual.” 

^'It  might  have  been  much  longer,”  gaily  rejoined  the  young 
Viscount ; but  the  keen  air  from  the  lake  had  created  in  me 
such  a giant  appetite,  that  Minie  took  pity  on  me,  and  returned 
sooner  than  we  otherwise  should  have  done.  Aunt  Mary,  have 
the  kindness  to  give  me  some  of  that  fine  Scotch  dish,  name 
unpronounceable,  which  you  have  near  you.  You  and  Mr. 
Melford  may  contrive  to  keep  your  hunger  within  bounds  ; as 
I have  heard,  love  never  thinks  of  eating.  Now  I have  no  such 
pleasant  succedaneum,  so  must  e’en  look  to  solids  for  recreation. 
Grandmamma,  is  there  any  chance  of  my  dying  of  decline 
produced  from  starvation  ! You  were  sadly  afraid  for  me 
before  we  began  to  travel.  What  do  you  say  now  ? ” 

‘'Thank  God,  my  fears  are  groundless,  my  dear  boy,” replied 
Lady  Edgemere,  with  emotion,  for  the  early  death  of  her 
eldest  son  ever  made  her  tremble  for  his  heir. 

“Why,  what  in  the  world  has  come  to  William?”  continued 
the  boy,  springing  up  from  his  substantial  repast ; “ look  how 
he  is  fiying  down  the  garden,  as  if  a set  of  hounds  were  at  his 
heels.  Well,  what  is  it.  Will?  Scared  by  all  the  bogies  of 
the  lake?”  he  added,  laughing,  as  the  parlour-door  burst  open, 
and  the  person  of  whom  he  spoke  appeared,  looking  white 
with  terror. 

“ My  master — my  poor  master  ! ” were  the  first  words  intel- 
ligible. “ They  say  his  horse  w^as  seen  to  leap  the  precipice 
yonder — dashed  to  pieces  with  the  fall.  Oh ! what  has  become 
of  my  dear,  dear  master  ? ” 

“He  is  here,  you  faithful  idiot!”  replied  a well-known  voice, 
some  yards  behind  him ; and  before  the  exclamations  of  horror 
the  sudden  start  occasioned  by  WTlliam’s  terrible  information 
had  subsided,  Frank  Howard  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  group. 


woman’s  friendship. 


267 


without  a soil  or  stain,  or  any  visible  mark  of  danger.  ^'Before 
you  frighten  all  my  friends  another  time,  my  good  fellow,  be 
sure  that  your  master  is  dashed  to  pieces,  as  well  as  his  horse. 
Poor  fellow,  that  is  loss  enough  for  me,  but  not  quite  sufficient 
to  terrify  every  one  thus.  Do  not  shake  so,  man,  and  stare  at 
me  as  if  you  saw  my  ghost  instead  of  flesh  and  blood.  I tell 
you  I am  safe  and  well,  even  unhurt ; in  just  sufficient  danger 
to  bid  me  thank  God  it  was  no  worse.  Now  go ; there’s  a 
good  fellow.  I am  afraid  you  have  frightened  others  as  much 
as  yourself,”  he  added,  turning  away  to  hide  his  emotion,  as 
his  servant  caught  his  hand  and  sobbed  over  it  like  a child, 
and  then  hastily  retired,  trying  to  beg  pardon.  The  relief  was 
as  sudden  as  the  shock,  and  the  nerves  of  the  luncheon-party 
had  in  consequence,  for  the  most  part,  recovered  their  equilib- 
rium before  Howard  had  done  speaking  ; but  on  one  amongst 
them  the  effect  of  the  shock  was  rather  more  severe.  Minie 
Leslie  had  sprung  up,  with  a faint  suppressed  cry,  on  William’s 
first  words,  which,  on  the  sudden  sound  of  his  master’s  voice, 
was  followed  by  what,  in  such  a child  as  herself,  appeared  most 
strange  and  incomprehensible.  She  dropped  down  where  she 
stood,  so  perfecty  lifeless,  that  she  might  have  been  seriously 
hurt,  had  not  her  head  fallen  on  the  ample  folds  of  Lady 
Edgemere’s  velvet  dress.  Nor  was  any  member  of  the  party 
aware  of  the  occurrence,  so  entirely  were  their  faculties 
absorbed  in  Frank’s  appearance  ; until  an  exclamation,  in 
which  the  words,  Minie  ! good  heaven — is  this  for  me  ? my 
precious  Minie  ! ” unheard  by  the  greater  number,  but  remem- 
bered some  hours  after  with  peculiar  pleasure  by  Lady  Mary, 
recalled  the  attention  of  all  to  the  fainting  girl. 

A scene  of  confusion  of  course  followed.  Disregarding  all 
the  questions,  whether  ejaculated  or  expressed,  wffiich  were 
poured  upon  him,  Frank  bounded  from  one  side  of  the  room 
to  the  other,  and  in  a second  had  raised  Minie  in  his  arms. 

Bring  her  into  this  room,  Frank  : there  is  more  air  ; and 
she  will  recover  the  sooner  out  of  all  this  confusion,”  was  Lady 
Mary’s  wise  direction,  leading  the  way  into  an  adjoining  apart- 
ment which  was  vacant,  and  pointing  to  a couch,  on  which  he 
placed  his  still  senseless  charge;  hanging  over  her,  however,  as 
very  loath  to  leave  her. 

Now  go,  my  very  good  friend;  you  have  been  the  means 
of  frightening  her  to  death.  Let  that  satisfy  you,  and  do  not 
attempt  more.  I can  better  restore  her  to  life  than  you  can.” 


268 


woman's  friendship. 


I cannot  be  so  unfeeling  as  to  leave  her  in  this  state,  Lady 
Mary/'  he  exclaimed. 

‘‘  Yes,  you  can,  very  easily.  You  will  have  enough  to  do  to 
answer  all  the  multitudinous  questions  as  to  the  cause  of 
William's  incomprehensible  fright.  Do  go,  and  keep  all  the 
folks  away.  This  poor  child  will  recover  sooner  when  alone 
with  me ; there  is  a streak  of  colour  coming  into  her  face 
already.  After  all,  it  may  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  fright. 
She  was  looking  very  pale  before,  and  the  room  was  very  close, 
and  the  luncheon  over  savoury,"  she  added,  looking  in 
Howard’s  anxious  face,  with  the  most  provoking  expression 
imaginable.  But  if  she  wished  thus  to  lower  his  amour  propre^ 
she  most  certainly  did  not  succeed  : however  presumptuous 
the  idea,  that  fainting  confirmed  the  long-indulged  hope  that 
he  was  beloved ; and  the  thought  was  so  entrancing  that  he 
could  scarcely  restrain  himself  from  folding  the  senseless  Minie 
closer  and  closer  to  him,  and  being  actually  daring  enough  to 
press  his  lips  to  her  pale  cheek.  But  Lady  Mary,  provoking 
Lady  Mary,  was  present,  and  he  would  not  make  himself  such 
a fool ; so  after  lingering  till  quite  satisfied  that  she  really  was 
recovering,  he  was  obliged  to  obey  the  impatient  command  to 
go,  and  keep  every  one  away,  as  Minie  must  be  left  quiet. 

He  w^ent,  and  Lady  Mary,  carefully  closing  the  door, 
returned,  with  some  peculiarly  pleasant  feelings,  to  her  task 
of  restoring  the  now  quickly  reviving  animation.  After  a few 
minutes,  Minie  started  up,  looked  round  her  bewildered,  and 
then  exclaimed,  ''  What  has  happened.  Lady  Mary  ? Who 
brought  me  here  ? and  why  does  my  head  feel  so  light  and 
strange  ? " 

To  your  first  and  last  question,  my  dear,  one  answer  will 
suffice.  You  have  been  silly  enough  to  faint ; and  such  being 
the  case,  it  is  no  very  great  wonder  you  should  feel  somewhat 
light-headed.  To  your  second  query,  who  brought  you  here, 
I answer  even  that  honourable  gentleman,  Francis  Howard,  as 
you  were  somewhat  too  heavy,  in  your  senseless  state,  for  my 
arms  to  support." 

Mr.  Howard ! " repeated  Minie,  her  cheek  flushing  crimson ; 

faint ! I never  did  such  a thing  in  my  life." 

Very  likely  not,  my  dear,"  replied  Lady  Mary,  laughing ; 
^'but  that  is  no  reason  that  you  never  should.  Why  you 
did  such  a silly  thing,  indeed,  I cannot  tell ; it  could  scarcely 
have  been  the  fright  about  Frank,  for  the  other  day  you  saw 


"woman’s  friendship. 


261> 


a man  thrown  off  his  horse  and  nearly  killed,  and  you  scarcely 
even  changed  colour,  but  sprang  out  of  the  carriage  to  give  all 
the  help  you  could.” 

''  But  Frank — Mr.  Howard,  I mean — is  not — not — hurt  ? — 
has  not  been — ” 

‘‘  Killed  ? No,  my  dear  ; being  in  very  substantial  preser- 
vation, as  I told  you,  he  conveyed  you  here  himself.  That 
he  has  lost  his  horse,  dashed  over  some  precipice,  is  all  I can 
understand  of  the  strange  tale.  Now  don’t  faint  again  for 
the  fate  of  a horse ; that  would  be  too  ridiculous.  I do  not 
mean  to  scold  you,  silly  Min ; you  could  not  help  fainting,  so 
you  need  not  cry  about  it,  like  a simpleton.  Come,  try  and 
go  to  sleep.  Fainting  fits  always  punish  those  who  really  have 
them,  by  compelling  them  to  silence  and  solitude  for  some 
hours.” 

Minie  had  sunk  back  when  Lady  Mary  mentioned  the  fate 
of  the  horse,  pale  as  before,  the  large  tears  slowly  oozing  from 
her  closed  eyelids,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  she  restrained  a 
strong  shudder,  as  she  pictured  what  might  have  been  the  fate 
of  its  master.  Lady  Mary  affectionately  kissed  her,  told  her 
to  be  a good  child,  and  she  would  stay  by  her. 

‘'But  Mr.  Melford,  Lady  Mary,  why  should  I keep  you 
from  him.” 

“ He  must  do  without  me,  my  dear  : I have  honoured  him 
all  the  morning.  Unless  you  like  Frank’s  nursing  better  than 
mine ; if  so,  I will  go  away,  and  send  him.” 

“ No,  no,  pray  do  not,  dearest  Lady  Mary ; what  would  he 
think  of  me  ? what  must  he  think  of  me  now  ; and  he  used 
to  praise  my  strong  nerves.  How  could  I be  so  foolish  as  to 
be  so  frightened ! ” 

“ Never  mind  what  anybody  thinks,  my  dear,  but  obey  me, 
and  lie  still.  Depend  upon  it,  as  Frank  caused  the  fright,  he 
will  not  quarrel  with  your  want  of  nerve.” 

Minie  did  not  reappear  till  dinner,  and  then,  pitying  her 
confusion  and  shyness.  Lady  Mary  had  made  it  a point  of 
entreating  that  no  notice  might  be  taken  of  her  lingering 
paleness.  Howard  led  her  in  to  dinner,  placed  himself  beside 
her,  and  paid  her  all  sorts  of  little  attentions,  so  as  quite  to 
remove  the  idea  that  she  had  sunk  in  his  estimation  from  her 
unusual  weakness.  The  accident  was  freely  discussed,  but  the 
feeling  eloquence  wdth  v/hich  Howard  alluded  to  his  almost 
miraculous  preservation  brought  tlie  bright  drops  anew  into 


270 


woman’s  friendship. 


her  eyes.  However,  it  was  no  heaviness  of  spirits  which 
produced  them,  for  before  the  evening  closed  she  was  as  lively 
as  usual,  seated  at  Lord  Edgemere’s  feet,  singing  song  after 
song  in  her  own  rich,  thrilling  voice  ; thus  proving,  Lady 
Mary  laughingly  declared,  that  though  her  fainting  looked 
very  like  it,  she  was  no  fine  lady,  after  all ; she  had  not  been 
languishing  and  sentimental  half  long  enough. 


# 


CHAPTER  XL  VI. 

A MOUSING  WALK. — TKUE  LOVE. — DIFEIGULTIES. 


Francis  PIoward  slept  very  little  tliat  night.  Dreams  of 
Scotch  precipices  and  dying  horses,  bine  lakes  and  fairy-like 
nymphs,  mingled  very  incongruously  in  his  slumbers,  until  at 
last  they  all  gave  place  to  one  fair  image  and  one  resolute 
thought,  which  outlived  his  sleeping  visions,  and  so  actuated 
his  waking,  that  he  started  from  his  couch,  determined  to  be 
undecided  no  longer,  but  in  actual  words  demand  if  he  might 
be  blessed  or  not ; and  an  opportunity  offered  itself  so  in- 
vitingly, that  it  seemed  sent  by  his  good  angel,  on  purpose  to 
bring  him  to  the  point.  Lord  Edgemere’s  party  were  all  fond 
of  walking  before  breakfast  ; so  that  meal  generally  took 
place  at  a very  late  hour  : and  just  as  Howard  had  completed 
his  toilette — rather  a longer  task  than  usual,  from  his  pacings 
to  and  fro  in  his  chamber — he  saw  Minie  Leslie  and  Algernon 
Villiers  bound  along  the  garden,  arm  in  arm. 

Now,  then,’’  he  thought.  '^But  what  can  I do  with 
Algernon  ?”  followed  instantly.  Oh  ! my  fowling-piece ; he 
will  be  off  to  try  its  metal  directly  he  sees  it ; ” and  he  set 
forth,  gun  in  hand.  The  young  Viscount  hailed  him  with  a 
shout  of  delight. 

‘^Whatl  going  to  shoot  so  early,  Mr.  Howard?  Oh!  do 
let  me  have  one  shot  before  you  go.” 

“And  destroy  Miss  Leslie’s  recovered  nerves  on  the  instant  ? 
No,  my  good  fellow,  if  you  want  my  gun,  leave  me  the  care 
of  your  fair  companion  ; that  is,  if  she  will  accept  the 
exchange.” 

“Oh  ! you  will  take  much  better  care  of  her.  Now  I have 
smelt  gunpowder,  you  had  better  let  me  go.” 


272 


WOMANS  FRIENDSHIP. 


You  may  shoot  here  if  you  like  ; I am  not  at  all  afraid/^ 
she  answered,  laughing.  I am  not  so  silly  as  to  be  frightened 
at  a gun.” 

No,  no  ! I will  not  hear  of  it,”  hastily  interposed  Frank, 
keeping  firm  hold  of  his  gun.  ^‘An  accident  may  happen  in  a 
moment.  Promise  me  to  find  William,  and  tell  him  to  go 
with  you,  and  you  shall  have  the  gun,  but  not  otherwise.” 

I promise  faithfully,  most  inexorable  mentor.  Why, 
grandmamma  herself  could  not  take  more  care  of  me.  I am 
off ; a pleasant  walk  to  you  both,”  and  he  bounded  away. 

Howard  watched  till  his  servant  joined  him,  then  satisfied 
as  to  his  safety.  A pretty  cavalier,  so  to  desert  his  lady 
fair,”  he  began,  and  he  put  her  arm  in  his,  according  to 
custom,  and  they  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  lake.  Does 
he  deserve  mercy  ? He  ought  to  be  expunged  from  the  list  of 
all  good  knights  and  true.” 

‘‘Nay,  Mr.  Howard,  you  ought  not  to  be  so  severe  upon 
him  ; for  were  not  you  the  tempter  ?”  she  replied,  archly. 

“ Indeed  I was,  and  more  so  than  you  imagine.  I turned 
tempter  on  purpose  to  get  rid  of  him,  and  become  sole 
guardian  of  your  ramble.  My  egregious  folly  yesterday  lost 
me  the  pleasure  of  your  society  almost  all  day ; so  I deter- 
mined to  make  up  for  it  this  morning.  Will  you  forgive  my 
sending  off  Algernon  ? and  can  you  trust  me  with  your  safety 
for  an  hour  or  so — tete-a-tete  ?” 

“ I will  do  both,  very  willingly,”  she  answered,  with  perfect 
artlessness.  “ For  the  one  needs  no  forgiveness  at  all ; and 
for  the  other,  you  have  always  been  so  very  careful  of  my 
safety,  I cannot  think  why  I should  not  trust  you  now.” 

“ But  will  you  do  more,  Minie  ? I cannot  call  you  Miss 
Leslie,  for  the  life  of  me.” 

“And  why  should  you,  Mr.  Howard  ? You  never  have  ; 
and,  indeed,  I am  not  Miss  Leslie.  I do  not  like  to  be  so 
titled ; it  sounds  so  formal,  or  else  as  if  you  were  displeased 
with  me.” 

“Displeased!”  exclaimed  Frank,  with  most  extraordinary 
impetuosity  ; “who  could  ever  be  displeased  with  you  ?” 

“Not  many  have  been,  Mr.  Howard  ; for  I was  always  the 
petted  child  of  my  own  family.  But  those  who  so  loved  and 
cared  for  me  are  all  gone  but  one,  and  I must  not  expect  to 
go  through  life  so  fondly  cared  for  now.”  The  bright  smile 
vanished,  and  her  beautiful  eyes  swelled  with  large  tears.  She 


woman’s  friendship. 


273 


bent  down  her  head,  but  the  sudden  quivering  of  her  voice 
betrayed  them,  and  Frank  found  it  impossible  to  resist 
pressing  the  hand  which  rested  on  his  arm  closer  to  him.  A 
very  brief  interval,  and  she  looked  up  with  a smile  radiant 
as  before.  ‘‘But  it  seems  as  if  I were  always  to  be  spoilt 
and  fondled  ; for  my  friends  are  still  so  kind.  Lady  Mary, 
and  Lord  and  Lady  Edgemere,  and  even  you,  Mr.  Howard, 
do  all  you  can  to  make  me,  oh,  so  happy ! ” 

“ I,  Minie  ! would  to  heaven  that  1 could  make  you  happy, 
happier  than  any  person  else  ! ” She  looked  at  him,  actually 
startled  at  his  violence,  and  met  in  return  a glance  which, 
though  she  could  not  understand  it,  made  her  withdraw  hers 
on  the  instant,  and  blush  deeply.  “ But  why  not  call  me 
Frank,  if  I may  call  you  Minie?”  he  said,  striving  to  make 
his  heart  beat  less  quickly,  for  the  nearer  he  approached  the 
words  he  most  desired  to  say,  the  more  difficulty  there  seemed 
in  saying  them.  “ I dislike  formality  as  much  as  you  do.” 

“ Oh,  but  it  is  so  different ; I am  simple  Minie  Leslie  to 
every  one,  but  I could  not  call  Lady  Mary,  ‘Mary,’  or 
Mr.  Melford,  ‘ Alfred ; ’ and  I have  known  you  less  time  than 
either,  and  I suppose  that  is  the  reason  why  I feel  as  if  I 
could  never  call  you  Frank.” 

But  timidly  as  it  was  pronounced,  the  name  had  never 
sounded  so  thrillingly  sweet  in  Howard’s  ears  as  at  that 
moment. 

“ Never  ! nay,  nay,  you  shall  not  say  so,  Minie ; indeed  you 
must  call  me  Frank,  and  very  often.  But  I frighten  you  with 
my  violence.  You  are  still  weak  from  yesterday’s  alarm, 
unhappy  as  I was  to  cause  it.” 

“Indeed,  I am  not,  Mr.  Howard.  You  must  not  let  me 
lose  my  character  for  courage  because  I was  so  foolish.  I do 
not  know  how  it  was,  but  I could  not  help  it.” 

“ And  I would  not  have  had  it  otherwise,  for  the  universe, 
if — if  I may  hope  from  it  what  would  make  me  the  happiest 
man  alive.  Minie,  dearest  Minie,  I wanted  to  tell  you  a long 
tale,  to  beseech  you  to  listen,  to  bear  with  me,  but  I can  only 
ask  you  one  thing  now.  You  said  just  now  that  I too  made 
you  happy ; tell  me,  I implore  you,  can  you,  will  you  trust 
me  always  to  make  you  happy  ? Will  you  let  me  be  to  you 
all  you  have  lost,  and  let  me  love,  cherish,  bless  you,  even 
more  than  they  did  ? dearest,  will  you,  can  you  love  me  ? ” 

It  was  no  fancy  now,  for  Minie  did  tremble  so  violently 

T 


274 


woman’s  friendship. 


that  Howard  was  compelled  to  put  his  arm  round  her,  or  she 
must  have  fallen;  but  never  did  a more  genuine  look  of 
bewilderment,  struggling  with  happiness,  meet  his  earnest 
gaze  than  hers  at  that  moment. 

Me  ! you  cannot  mean  it.  Oh  ! no,  no  ! ” were  the  only 
•words  he  heard  ; and  though  her  face  had  been  covered  with 
her  hands  directly  after  that  one  bewildered  gaze,  either  the 
power  or  the  will  failed  her  to  break  from  his  support. 

Mean  it  ? indeed,  indeed  I do  ! I would  not,  I dared  not 
play  with  such  a heart  as  yours.  My  own  Minie ! listen  to 
me,  for  you  shall  know  the  truth,  even  though  it  lose  me  the 
happiness  I crave.  I joined  Lord  Edgemere’s  party,  wounded, 
depressed,  miserable.  I had  thought  I loved,  and  that  the 
object  of  my  fancied  love  was  not  indifferent  to  me;  I had 
associated  with  her  so  long  on  terms  of  friendly  intimacy,  felt 
for  her  such  strong  regard,  that  when  I saw  her  in  distress  I 
fancied  that  regard  stronger  than  it  was,  dwelt  upon  it,  en- 
couraged it,  thought  upon  it,  the  more  perhaps  because  her 
manner  became  colder  as  mine  warmed.  I proposed,  and  was 
rejected  ; feelingly,  kindly,  most  kindly,  but  so  decidedly, 
that  I believe  the  heart  I then  wished  to  gain  had  been 
already  given  to  another;  and  the  delusion  thus  broken 
convinced  me  I had  been  deceived,  not  in  her,  but  in 
myself.  How  completely  deceived  I knew  not,  till  I associated 
in  all  the  happiness  of  a home  with  you  ; and  I felt  I had 
never  known  love  till  then,  that  it  was  but  a brother’s  love, 
heightened  by  imagination,  which  I had  felt  before.  Yet  I lot 
weeks,  months  pass,  to  be  sure  of  myself,  to  feel  that  I could 
offer  you  a heart  so  entirely  your  own  that  it  conteined  not 
even  a memory  to  alloy  its  truth.  I sought  you  first,  because 
it  seemed  a sad  pleasure  to  speak  of  Florence  ; then  gradually 
I felt  it  was  your  voice,  your  smile,  your  gentleness  which 
bound  me  to  your  side — that  you  were  rapidly  filling  up  the 
void  which  the  fancy  that  I was  never  to  be  beloved  had 
opened  in  my  heart — you  were  spreading  such  joy  around  my 
path,  and  in  my  soul,  that  I felt  could  I but  win  your  love,^  I 
should  never  feel  despondency  or  loneliness  again.  Minie, 
dearest  Llinie,  will  you  return  this  love,  the  first,  in  truth,  though 
it  appears  the  see-ond  ? Will  you  trust,  believe  that  no  passion 
lingers  for  other  than  your  gentle  self  ? Can  you  ^ trust 
your  happiness  with  me,  and  believe  me  that,  dear  as  it  has 
been  to  father,  mother,  brother,  all  who  have  loved  you,  it  will 
be  more  precious  still  to  me  ? ” 


woman’s  friendship. 


275 


He  had  spoken  rapidly,  and  with  strong  emotion  ; hut  his  arm 
was  still  encircling  Minie,  and  she  had  not  removed  it.  There 
were  large  tears  coursing  down  her  cheek,  but  her  eyes  had 
been  gradually  raised  to  his,  first  in  wonderment,  and  then  in 
such  artless  confidence,  that  he  scarcely  needed  words. 

‘‘And  can  you,  who  have  once  loved  Florence,  sought 
Florence  for  your  own,  in  very  truth,  so  love  me  ? ” she 
asked  so  pleadingly,  so  simply,  that  her  lover  was  irresistibly 
compelled  to  press  his  lips  to  hers  ; and  frightened  as  she  was 
at  the  action,  the  fear  only  made  her  unconsciously  to  cling 
closer  to  him.  “ Oh  ! Mr.  Howard,  how  can  I be  to  you  what 
Siie  would  have  been — the  companion,  the  friend,  all  that  your 
wife  should  be  ? Simple  as  I am,  child  as  they  still  say  I am, 
how  is  it,  how  can  it  be  possible  you  should  love  me  ? ” 

“ Minie,  you  are  no  child  ! Truth,  guilelessness,  sweetness ; 
you  have  all  these,  all  that  makes  your  sex  worthy  of  love,  and 
fitted  to  retain  it.  If  I were  to  leave  you  for  years,  and  go 
mingle  with  hundreds  of  fashion’s  daughters,  I should  turn  to 
you  still  for  all  that  would  make  me  happy,  all  that  would 
make  my  home.  Dearest,  loveliest;  you  are  lonely  only  in 
your  own  artless  mind,  simple  only  in  your  too  humble  opinion 
of  yourself ; child-like,  aye,  in  all  that  can  make  childhood 
lovely,  and  rivet  love  so  strongly  that  not  even  death  could 
tear  it  from  me.  The  proudest  noble  in  the  land  might  envy 
me  your  love,  if  indeed,  indeed,  I may  hope  that  I plead  not 
in  vain.  You  will  accept  a heart,  though  it  w^as  once  offered 
to  another — you  will  love  me?  Speak,  dearest;  but  one  little 
word— you  will,  you  do  love  me  ! ” 

She  could  not  speak  that  word,  little  as  it  was ; but  she 
lifted  up  her  sweet  face,  fixed  its  clear,  truthful  orbs  for  one 
brief  minute  fully  upon  his,  and  that  lovely  head  w^as  bent 
dowm,  and  the  rich  mantling  blushes  hidden  on  his  bosom. 

“ I am  satisfied ! Bless  you,  my  own  beloved,”  whispered 
the  enraptured  Howard;  and  then  he  added,  “and  you  can 
trust  me  Minie  ? you  will  trust  me  that  I have  loved,  and  do 
love  but  you  ? ” 

“ That  you  do  love  but  me — yes ; or  you  would  not  thus 
speak,”  she  answered,  unhesitatingly.  “ That  you  have  never 
loved  before — I know  not  how  you  could  associate  intimately 
with  Florence,  and  yet  not  love  her.  But  even  if  you  had, 
and  her  rejection  caused  you  to  conquer  that  affection,  do 
you,  can  you  think,  because  you  had  once  loved  her,  I — I 

T'  2 


276 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


could — I must  love  you  less  ? Oh  ! Mr.  Howard,  you  do  not 
know  how  I love  and  reverence  my  sister,  or  you  would  not 
think  thus.  Would — w^ould  that  I were  as  worthy  to  be  your 
wife  as  she  is ! ’’ 

And  will  she  not  tell  me  that  you  are,  sweet  one?”  replied 
her  lover  ; that  there  never  was  or  will  be  one  more  de- 
serving of  love  than  Minie ; I have  heard  her  say  it  often, 
though  neither  she  nor  I knew  what  that  loved  being  would 
become  to  me.  But  you  have  twice  called  me  Mr.  Howard, 
dearest.  Will  you  not  say  Frank  now ! ” 

‘^Indeed,  indeed,  I do  not  know  that  I can,  even  now,” 
she  said,  playfully ; but  I will  try  to  feel  that  you  have  been 
and  still  will  be  Frank  to  me,”  she  added,  after  a brief  pause, 
and  with  an  artless  timidity,  perfectly  irresistible  to  her 
betrothed,  who  in  this  interview  certainly  proved  that  Lord 
St.  Maur  knew  him  better  than  he  did  himself;  for  not  a 
thought,  not  a shadow  found  entrance  to  dim  that  one  sweet 
hour  of  love  first  told.  A character  peculiarly  alive  to 
domestic  ties,  to  be  clung  to,  to  feel  that  one  being  in  the 
whole  world  was  dependent  upon  him : it  was  no  common 
bliss  to  find  all  these  in  one,  truthful,  innocent,  and  lovely  as 
Minie  Leslie  ; and  Howard  was  fairly  carried  out  of  himself. 
Do  not  blame  him,  reader ; Lord  St.  Maur  was  right — he  had 
never  loved  before. 

Great  was  the  astonishment  of  both  Frank  and  Minie, 
when,  at  length  remembering  they  had  not  breakfasted,  they 
returned  to  the  house,  and  found  the  breakfast-parlour  de- 
serted by  all  but  Lady  Mary  and  Alfred  Melford,  who  had 
waited  for  the  loiterers.  Much  amusement  their  conscious 
confusion  of  course  elicited,  but  Frank  cleverly  contrived  to 
turn  the  stream  of  ridicule  upon  himself  so  as  to  permit 
Minie  to  eat  what  breakfast  she  could  in  comparative  comfort; 
the  laughing  light  in  her  deep  blue  eyes,  the  varying  flushes 
on  her  cheek,  betraying  a tale  of  happiness,  however,  which  no 
satire  could  alloy.  She  retreated  to  her  own  room  after 
breakfast,  and  there  Lady  Mary  followed  her. 

'^You  will  never  do  for  a fine  lady,  Minie,”  she  said,  on 
entering.  ''  Here  have  you  been  up  early,  and  have  taken  a 
walk,  fasting,  long  enough  to  tire  an  elephant.  You  naughty 
child;  jokes  apart,  you  ought  to  have  had  more  care  of 
yourself  after  your  illness  yesterday  ; and,  in  serious  earnest, 
as  you  have  been  intrusted  to  my  care,  I must  ask  you  where 
you  have  been  ?” 


woman’s  feiendship. 


277 


In  serious  earnest,  dear  Lady  Mary,  I can  read  in  your 
eyes,  Idnd  though  they  look,  that  you  think  I have  forgotten 
propriety  in  remaining  out  so  long  ; and  indeed,  indeed, 
it  would  have  been  very  wrong  if  I had  known  how  long  it 
was,  if — ^but  why  speak  so  now,”  she  added,  breaking  off 
abruptly,  and  throwing  herself  into  her  friend  s arms.  “ Oh, 
Lady  Mary,  I am  so  happy,  so  very,  very  happy,  and  it  is  all 
owing  to  you ; for  had  I not  been  with  you,  I should  never 
have  known  him,  and  he  would  never  have  known  me.  Oh, 
tell  me  it  is  no  dream  1 ” 

And  Lady  Mary,  truly  and  thoroughly  delighted,  did  assure 
her  that  it  was  not  only  very  possible,  but  perfectly  true ; that 
she  had  seen  it  a very  long  time  ; and  that  nothing  in  the 
world  could  please  her  more  than  he  should  come  to  the  point, 
and  that  Minie  was  happy.  Time  flew  in  such  discussion,  and 
Lady  Mary  only  left  her  to  the  delightful  task  of  writing  to 
Florence.  Florence ! could  it  be  possible,  she  who  had  associ- 
ated so  long  and  intimately  with  Howard,  who  had  received 
his  attentions,  even  the  offer  of  his  hand,  and  yet  rejected 
him  ? Minie  could  not  understand  it.  Had  the  sisters  been 
together  during  the  time  of  Howard’s  delusion,  Florence  could 
scarcely  have  concealed  from  Minie  that  her  fancy,  if  not  her 
feelings,  had  been  captivated  ; but  in  the  brief  intervals  that 
Florence  was  at  home,  his  name  was  seldom  more  than  casually 
mentioned.  The  more  Minie  thought  on  this  subject,  the 
more  puzzled  she  became,  until  the  mystery  seemed  solved  by 
tke  recollections  of  Frank’s  fancy  that  Florence  loved  another. 
Whom  she  could  have  loved  in  preference  to  Howard,  Minie 
could  not  imagine ; her  only  wish  was,  that  her  sister  could  be 
as  happy  as  herself,  and  she  poured  forth  her  whole  heart  in 
glowing  words. 

Howard,  meanwhile,  had  made  his  engagement  known  to 
Lord  Edgemere  and  his  family,  receiving  their  warmest  con- 
gratulations in  return.  The  Earl  alone  looked  grave.  You 
have  acted  with  your  usual  honour,  Frank,”  he  said;  ‘‘but  one 
person  you  seem  to  have  forgotten — your  father.” 

The  young  man  started.  He  had  forgotten,  if  not  quite 
the  existence  of  his  father,  certainly  his  peculiar  pre- 
judices. 

“ He  surely  cannot,  will  not  condemn  his  only  son  to  misery 
for  paltry  gold!”  he  exclaimed.  “He  has  been  kind  in  his 
own  way  to  me.  Surely  he  will  not  deny  me  this,  when  I shall 


278 


woman's  friendship. 


one  day  have  thousands ; and  my  present  allowance  Would, 
with  a very  little  increase,  support  us  both." 

Not  quite  in  the  style  which  is  due  to  your  wife,  Frank  ; 
though  it  might  perhaps  more  than  satisfy  yourself  and  Minie. 
Remember,  you  are  still  very  young;  little  more  than  two-and 
twenty,  I believe.  Do  not  make  your  engagement  public  till 
you  have  spoken  with  your  father." 

And  depend  upon  his  caprice  for  my  happiness,  and  that 
of  Minie,  which  is  infinitely  dearer!  Lord  Edgemere,  how  can 
I do  this  ? " 

What  do  you  mean  to  do,  my  young  friend  ? Marry 
without  even  the  compliment  of  telling  him  your  intentions?" 

No,  no ; of  course,  not ; but  if  I ask  consent,  I must 
abide  by  the  decision  ? " 

Which  you  fear  will  be  against  your  wishes,  by  your 
hesitation  to  ask.  Depend  upon  it,  Frank,  Minie  Leslie  has 
too  fine  a spirit,  gentle  as  she  seems,  to  wed  you,  if  she  is  to 
be  any  cause  of  contention  between  you  and  your  only  parent. 
I wish  you  happy  from  my  very  heart,  but  I fear  you  have  at 
present  some  difficulties  in  the  way  of  being  so.  I tell  you 
honestly,  had  I even  thought  of  your  joining  us,  Minie,  sweet 
girl  as  she  is,  should  not  have  been  of  our  party.  I love  her 
too  well  to  expose  her  wilfully  to  danger;  but  when  you  came, 
I could  not  send  her  away,  or  bid  you  decamp,  though  I have 
been  in  no  little  anxiety  ever  since." 

Never  mind  it,  my  dear  lord,"  replied  Howard,  stopping 
his  hasty  walk  across  the  room  to  face  his  friend,  and  laugh 
heartily  at  the  perplexity  marked  in  the  Earl's  features.  I 
am  not  a man  to  be  daunted  with  difficulties,  and  such  as  these 
I will  overcome.  There  is  a boundary  to  filial  duty  as  . well  as 
to  parental  authority  ; and  when  the  only  objection  to  Minie 
Leslie  is,  that  she  has  no  portion,  I will  not  let  that  come 
between  us  and  our  happiness.  My  father  has  surely  not  lost 
all  sense  of  honour,  of  feeling,  and  of  generosity ; he  will  not 
be  deaf  to  my  appeal,  and  we  shall  be  happy,  after  all.  So, 
for  heaven’s  sake,  my  lord,  banish  that  grave  face ; it  does  not 
accord  with  my  light  heart  at  all." 

hope  you  may  be  happy,  Frank,  but  I wish  you  had  been 
charmed  with  the  heiress,  Florence,  instead  of  her  portionless 
though  lovely  sister,"  answered  the  Earl,  half  laughing,  in  spite 
of  himself ; for  Frank's  gaiety  was  infectious. 

For  shame,  my  lord  ; you  have  grown  money-loving  and 


T\^0]\LO  S FRIENDSHIP. 


279 


calculating  as  a worldling  : I will  disown  your  friendship/'  he 
rejoined,  adding,  as  the  Earl  left  the  room,  ''  Florence  ! no  ; I 
could  never,  never  have  loved  Florence,  that  is  quite  clear. 
Now,  had  she  accepted  me,  I might  have  found  it  out  too  late, 
and  tieen  either  an  unhappy,  or,  by  drawing  back,  a dishonoured 
man.  I ivish  she  were  my  sister ; and  she  shall  be,  and  then  I 
may  love  and  reverence  her  still.  Engagement  secret ! Per- 
Iiaps  he  is  right — to  all  but  Lord  and  Lady  St.  Maur  ; for  the 
first  is  Minie's  guardian,  and  the  latter  will  think  me  a — a 
capricious  fool,  not  knowing  my  own  mind — so  the  sooner  she 
knows  it  the  better." 


CHAPTER  XLVIL 


ALL  FOR  THE  BEST,  AS  THE  EJTD  AVILL  PROVE. 


^^Well,  Ida,  what  say  you  now?  Penetrative  as  you  are,  I 
have  the  triumph  in  this  instance,’’  said  Lord  St.  Maur,  two 
or  three  days  after  the  event  of  our  last  chapter,  and  holding 
up  a letter  triumphantly  before  her.  'H  sent  Frank’s  letter  to 
you,  that  I might  not  witness  your  defeat.” 

‘‘  And  yet  you  cannot  restrain  your  triumph,  Edmund  ! a 
novel  mode  of  sparing  my  feelings.  However,  I am  too  pro- 
voked and  disappointed  to  resent  it.  If  I had  but  Frank  near 
us,  what  a lecture  would  I give  him  for  his  caprice  and  incon- 
stancy ! He  writes  as  if  he  knew  it  too,  yet  ventures  to 
excuse  himself.” 

I wonder  he  did  that,  for  men  in  love  seldom  think  of 
excusing  themselves.  After  all,  you  are  very  severe,  to  charge 
him  with  caprice.  What  could  the  poor  fellow  do,  rejected  as 
he  was  so  decidedly  ? ” 

He  ought  to  have  seen  there  was  something  more  in 
Florence  than  she  revealed.” 

'^And  so  he  did,  for  he  conquered  his  feelings  at  first,  under 
the  impression  that  Florence  rejected  him  because  she  loved 
another.” 

Impossible.” 

Yet  perfectly  true.  Read  what  he  says,”  and  he  gave  her 
his  own  letter. 

She  read  it,  then  said,  sorrowfully,  ‘^My  poor,  poor  Florence,, 
would  there  had  been  the  same  delusion  on  your  part  as  on  his. 
Yet,  if  she  had  accepted  him,  I wonder  if  this  would  have 
been.” 


woman’s  friendship. 


281 


Rather  a difficult  question.  I imagine  not ; for  I believe 
it  is  the  consciousness  of  being  loved  which  has  so  worked  on 
Frank ; and  had  he  known  that  this  was  also  the  case  with 
Florence,  his  delusion  might  have  continued,  till  it  became 
too  truly  love  to  waver  or  to  change.  Yet,  perhaps,  of  the 
two,  Minie  is  more  suited  to  him.” 

Do  not  say  so,  Edmund ; I will  not  hear  it.  She  is  a 
fascinating  creature,  doubtless,  but  has  not  the  high  character 
of  Florence.” 

And.  that  is  the  very  reason.  Were  Howard  five  or  six 
years  older,  Florence  would  be  better  suited  for  his  wife  ; but 
as  it  is,  I still  say  he  reverences  more  than  he  loves  her.  Sorrow 
and  heavy  cares  have  made  her  older  than  her  years.  Howard’s 
peculiar  disposition  will  be  happier  with  a wife  full  of  life, 
animation,  and  child-like  simplicity,  like  Minie,  than  with  her 
sister’s  higher  tone  of  character.  Minie’s  influence  will  remove 
the  precocious  gravity  which  his  uncomfortable  home  has 
engendered,  and  make  him  some  years  younger.” 

And  would  not  Florence  ? ” 

Hardly.  Have  you  seen  Florence  since  post-time  ? She 
has  letters,  and  of  course  one  from  Minie  : how  will  she  bear 
it?” 

Nobly.  I do  believe  that  the  idea  of  his  happiness  will, 
after  a brief  period  of  bitterness,  enable  her  to  meet  it 
calmly ; she  is  so  persuaded  now  that  it  was  right  to  act  as 
she  did,  that  I trust  and  pray  that  her  unselfish  devotedness 
will  bear  her  up,  and  be  its  own  reward.  I confess  I shrink 
from  seeing  her;  I dread  the  anguish  of  that  pale  face 
infinitely  more  than  words.” 

The  Countess  was  spared  the  interview.  On  approaching 
her  friend’s  room  she  encountered  Ferrers,  with  a packet  in 
her  hand  ; it  consisted  of  two  letters,  the  envelope  containing 
a few  tremulous,  scarcely  legible  lines  from  Florence. 

You  are  no  doubt  aware  of  the  contents  of  these  letters, 
my  dear  friend,”  she  wrote ; but  if  you  are  not,  and  indeed 
at  all  events,  read  them,  and  give  me  permission  to  spend 
this  one  day  alone.  I can  see  no  one,  not  even  you  ; for 
kindness  and  sympathy  would  utterly  unnerve  me  for  the  task 
before  me.  Do  not  fear  for  me  : I have  prayed  for  this,  that 
he  might  be  happy;  that  I might  have  the  power  of 
furthering  that  happiness ; and  both  are  granted  me.  Ought 


282  woman's  friendship. 

I not  to  be  content  ? I will  be  with  you  as  usual  to-morrow.- 
Pray  for  me. 

''  Florence." 

Lady  St.  Manr  did  grant  her  request ; for  though  her 
heart  yearned  towards  her,  she  felt  it  was  wiser  as  she  had 
herself  decided.  She  opened  the  letters  sent  for  her  perusal. 
Frank's  was  eloquent  and  manly  : he  alluded  slightly  to  his 
feelings  on  quitting  her,  then  to  those  which  had  led  to  his 
choosing  the  society  of  Minie ; the  gradual  effect  of  that 
exquisite  beauty,  both  of  face  and  character,  which  Florence 
had  so  often  described,  upon  his  heart,  yearning  as  it  was  to 
be  beloved  ; and  how,  when  he  found  that  he  was  in  truth  the 
object  of  that  young  heart's  first  preference,  he  had  felt  that 
with  her  he  might  be  happy. 

You  refused  me  that  which  I craved,"  he  continued  ; 
^'that  which,  had  it  been  granted,  hallowed  by  your  love, 
must  have  made  me  happy  even  as  I am  now,  refused  it  so 
decidedly  that  I might  not  even  hope  ; for  I felt,  suffering  as 
it  was  then  so  to  feel,  that  the  heart  I sought  was  the  property 
of  another.  Florence ! I appeal  to  you  now  for  the  gentle 
being  who  possesses  all  your  traits  of  excellence  in  addition 
to  her  own  ; and,  joy  of  all  joys,  she  loves  me  ! Give  me  the 
happiness  of  calling  you  my  sister ; for  as  such,  like  my  own 
Minie,  I shall  reverence  and  love  you.  Grant  me  the  gift  of 
your  sweet  sister,  the  blessing  of  your  sympathy,  and  would, 
oh,  would  to  heaven,  that  our  united  love  could  give  you  the 
happiness  which  you  will  bestow  on  us  !" 

Had  Florence  rejected  Howard  simply  because  she  did  not 
love  him,  this  letter  would  only  have  excited  pleasurable 
sensations.  Frank  wrote  solely  because  his  regard  for 
Florence  was  such  that  he  felt  it  would  increase  his  happiness 
to  receive  it  so  far  from  her  hand.  He  had  never  suspected, 
even  for  a single  minute,  that  there  existed  any  other  cause 
for  his  rejection  than  that  her  affections  were  pre-engaged ; 
and  he  feared,  from  her  manner,  unhappily.  Florence  read 
this  belief  in  the  whole  tone  and  spirit  of  his  letter  : and  the 
poor  girl  blessed  God  for  his  delusion. 

From  that  day's  agony  we  shall  not  attempt  to  lift  the  veil. 
No  doubt  there  will  be  many  who  will  think  that  Florence 
had  no  need  to  make  the  sacrifice,  and  therefore  deserved  all 
she  suffered  f but  to  those  who  have  no  belief  in  the  sacred 


woman's  friendship. 


283 


nattif^  of  ttiose  impulses  that  the  voice  of  Grod  SOluetimes 
speaks  within  us,  we  do  not  write.  Minie's  letter  was  indeed 
the  very  embodying  of  joy ; had  it  alluded  but  to  her  own 
feelings,  Florence  might  have  read  it  calmly  ; but  there  were 
passages  such  as  these  : — 

And  this  noble  being  had  not  the  power  to  rivet  your 
affections,  dearest  Florence,  though  he  sought  them ; and  I 
feel,  as  if  with  your  higher,  nobler  qualities,  you  would,  you 
must  have  suited  him.  better  than  your  simple  sister ; yet  he 
loves  me,  I hnow  he  does,  all  undeserving  as  lam.  He  tells 
me  my  affection  soothed  the  pain  which  your  rejection  caused, 
and  that  I can  make  his  happiness.  Oh,  what  unutterable 
joy ! How  could  you  have  associated  with  him  so  long, 
so  intimately,  and  yet  not  love  him?  It  can  only  be 
that,  from  your  manner  he  fancies  that  you  love  another. 
Oh,  if  it  should  be  so — and,  unhappily,  my  own  darling  sister, 
my  very  joy  seems  to  reproach  me — how  can  I be  happy  when 
you  are  in  sorrow  ? And  yet,  yet  there  is  a glowing  light 
around  me,  a strange  elasticity  upon  me  which  I cannot  define. 
I can  only  know,  only  feel  that  this  is  deeper,  dearer  bliss 
than  I have  ever  felt  before  !” 

Could  such  passages  be  read  unmoved  ? She  looked  back 
on  her  interview  with  Howard,  and  wondered  how  it  had  been 
— how  she  could  possibly  so  have  spoken,  so  appeared  as 
completely  to  delude.  It  seemed  as  if  some  fate  or  destiny, 
(why  should  we  use  such  words  ?)  some  divine  power  had  been 
at  work  around  them  all,  making  circumstances  as  they  then 
were.  To  her,  all  the  period,  from  her  discovery  of  the  secret 
papers  to  her  illness,  w^as  a blank,  peopled  only  by  undefined 
spectres  of  embodied  pain.  What  she  had  said  to  Howard 
was  so  completely  obliterated  that  not  even  a word  would 
return.  Had  he  really  even  loved  her,  or  was  it  all  a dream  ? 
But  why  should  she  feel  bitterness  ? Could  she  regret  aught 
which  could  assure  his  happiness,  even  at  the  cost  of  deeper 
suffering  to  herself?  No!  and  in  those  hours  of  agonized 
struggle,  she  thought  of  things  which  the  excited  Howard  had 
forgotten,  and  before  that  day  closed,  the  high-minded  woman 
had  resolved  on  a plan  which  would  remove  all  those  ob- 
jections to  their  union,  that  she  too  truly  anticipated,  from 
Lord  Glenvylle's  character,  must  arise. 

Florence  appeared  in  the  parlour,  and  officiated  at  the 
breakfast-table  as  usual  the  next  morning,  though  her  whole 


284 


woman’s  friendship. 


countenanee  bore  such  vivid  traces  of  suffering,  that  Sir 
Ronald  Elliott  could  do  nothing  but  gaze  and  commiserate, 
imagining  it  a return  of  the  bodily  ailing  to  which  his  cousin 
had  told  him  she  was  then  subject ; she  joined  in  the  general 
conversation,  and  smiled  away  all  Sir  Ronald’s  fears  and 
regrets,  and  seemed  resolved  by  neither  word,  sign,  nor  look 
to  betray  what  she  had  endured.  Of  the  two.  Lady  St.  Maiir 
was  much  more  silent  than  Florence  ; she  regarded  her  with 
astonishment  so  mingled  with  veneration,  that  she  could  not 
speak  on  indifferent  subjects ; she  recalled  the  lively,  happy 
being  of  St.  John’s,  whose  very  nature  appeared  as  if  it  must 
be  crushed  by  the  first  heavy  blow,  that  her  spirits  were  too 
elastic  to  endure,  and  that  the  bow  would  map,  not  hend. 
Yet  what  had  she  become?  To  give  her  sympathy,  words 
w^ere  impossible  ; but  when  alone  with  Florence,  she  could  not 
resist  clasping  those  cold  hands  in  both  hers,  and  pressing  a 
long,  long  kiss  upon  that  colourless  cheek,  whispering  in 
intense  emotion,  ‘‘  My  noble  Florence,  God  in  mercy  give  you 
peace  ! you  have  my  prayers.”  And  Florence’s  aching  head 
sank  for  a brief  interval  on  her  bosom,  as  if  to  thank  her  for 
that  blessed  meed  of  sorrow — silent  sympathy ; but  composure 
soon  returned. 

Two  or  three  days  afterwards,  Florence  mentioned  that  her 
estate  of  Woodlands  being  now  vacant,  she  should  like  to 
visit  it,  and  see  if  it  could  be  made  a desirable  residence  ; as 
she  wished  her  sister  to  have  a home  suited  to  her  future 
prospects.  Her  consent  and  sympathy  had,  of  course,  been 
written  to  Minie,  including  a message  to  Howard ; for  write 
to  him  she  could  not. 

Lady  St.  Maur  thought  the  exertion  too  much  for  her,  but 
yielded  at  length  to  Florence’s  assurance  that  exertion  was 
much  more  likely  to  do  her  good  than  harm.  She  hoped  not 
to  be  absent  more  than  a month  or  six  weeks  at  farthest. 
Ferrers  received  orders  for  the  necessary  preparations,  and 
within  the  week  Lord  St.  Maur  himself  accompanied  her  to 
her  estate.  He  was  just  the  kind  but  unobtrusive  friend  she 
needed  ; feeling  deeply  for  her,  yet  never  in  any  jarring 
manner  proving  that  he  did  so.  He  gave  her  the  advantage 
of  his  advice  and  taste,  and  when  he  left  her,  which  he  did 
after  ten  days’  sojouro,  assured  his  wife  she  need  feel  no 
uneasiness  for  Florence  ; he  was  certain  that  her  spirit  would 
carry  her  through  it  all. 


woman’s  friendship. 


285 


"‘Till  Millie  and  Frank  are  happy,”  was  the  reply;  “and 
then  God  in  his  infinite  mercy  alone  can  save  her  from  sinking 
to  the  grave.  She  is  under  excitement  now  ; wait  till  that  is 
over  ere  we  can  pronounce  upon  her  strength.” 

Lady  St.  Maur  was  right ; Florence  was  under  excitement ; 
she  herself  knew  not  how  powerfully.  She  knew  her  indivi- 
dual lot  was  and  must  he  for  some  time,  that  of  suffering ; 
and,  therefore,  steadfastly  turning  from  all  weakening  re- 
flection, gave  up  her  whole  being  to  the  hope  and  endeavour 
to  secure  the  happiness  of  those  she  loved.  She  entered  into 
the  minutest  particular  of  furnishing,  arranging,  and  house- 
keeping, which  needed  to  begin  from  the  very  beginning.  She 
interested  herself  in  all  those  little  things  which  some  women, 
enduring  her  heavy  trial,  would  have  shrunk  from,  as 
heightening  beyond  all  endurance  the  one  absorbing  agony, 
by  pricks  as  of  pins  and  thorns. 

Neither  Watson  nor  Ferrers,  nor  the  old  housekeeper  of 
Woodlands,  ever  spoke  of  their  young  lady  but  with  praise 
and  admiration.  Ferrers  indeed,  from  the  fact  of  her  sudden 
illness,  and  the  words  which  escaped  from  its  delirium,  miglit 
have  suspected  there  was  more  to  cause  her  delicate  health 
than  met  the  eye  ; but  she  was  not  one  to  speak  her  surmises  ; 
and  when  a sweetly-toned  voice  and  gentle  smile  ever  marked 
the  smallest  intercourse  with  her  domestics ; when  she 
suggested,  or  thankfully  accepted  suggestion,  for  improve- 
ments both  in  the  house  and  grounds,  and  so  cheerfully 
entered  into  every  minute  detail,  how  could  even  more  pene- 
trating persons  than  old  Watson  and  Mrs.  Bulling  imagine 
more  than  they  saw  ? Ill  in  health,  hov/  could  that  be,  when 
she  could  make  any  exertion,  if  it  were  needed,  and  endure 
such  fatigue  ? Pale  she  was  indeed  ; her  very  lips  were  seen 
to  lose  their  ruby  tint,  and  her  dark  eyes  to  grow  strangely 
dim ; but  the  Hampshire  air  would  bring  back  the  bonny  rose, 
and  they  must  look  out  for  some  one,  a right  noble  gentleman, 
for  her  to  w^ed  ; and  then  her  smiles  would  not  sink  upon  the 
heart,  as  they  sometimes  did,  making  them  feel  sad,  they 
knew  not  why,  but  be  glad  and  cheerful  as  her  voice.  So, 
often  gossiped  those  who  delighted  in  calling  Miss  Leslie 
mistress ; and  when  Sir  Eonald  Elliott  made  his  appearance 
at  Woodlands,  laden,  he  declared,  with  commissions  from  the 
Countess — else  he  had  not  dared  intrude  on  Miss  Leslie  s 
privacy — they  fixed  upon  him  at  once  as  the  cavalier  they 
wanted. 


286 


woman’s  feiendship. 


That  the  gallant  young  sailor  should  make  himself  friends 
amongst  all  the  tenantry  at  Woodlands  was  not  very  won- 
derful, as  British  sailors  are  generally  gveeted  with  joy,, 
wherever  they  come ; but  that  he  should  choose  to  quit 
Amersley  in  such  a dull,  damp,  uninviting  season  as  Novem- 
ber, and  make  a pilgrimage  to  Woodlands,  for  literally 
nothing  but  his  own  pleasure,  v/ould  have  been  much  more 
extraordinary  to  Florence,  had  not  her  mind  been  too  much 
preoccupied  to  think  about  it.  That  her  pale  face,  from 
which  she  imagined  every  trace  of  any  previous  attraction 
must  have  departed,  joined  as  it  was  to  a manner  so  spiritless, 
a form  so  faded,  could  have  any  fascination  for  one  so  buoyant, 
so  life-loving  as  the  young  Captain,  was  a circumstance  in 
itself  so  wholly  improbable,  as  never  for  one  moment  to  have 
entered  her  thoughts.  Yet  that  face  and  form  had  haunted 
Sir  Eonald  from  the  first  evening  he  had  seen  her ; he  saw — 
nay.  Lady  St.  Maur  had  told  him,  that  she  vras  in  deep 
affliction ; and  he  felt  an  interest  rising  towards  her  in  a most 
incomprehensible  manner,  and  became  restless  and  weary. 
To  the  amusement  of  his  relatives,  he  declared  he  would  take 
a run  down  to  old  London,  and  call  at  Woodlands,  in  case  he 
could  do  anything  for  Miss  Leslie,  on  his  way.  Take  Wood- 
lands in  his  way?  He  might  know  his  road  across  the 
Atlantic,  Lady  St.  Maur  told  him,  but  certainly  not  over 
England,  if  he  talked  of  going  through  Hampshire  in  the 
straight  road  from  Warwick  to  London.  He  did  not  care,  ge 
he  would ; Miss  Leslie  must  be  sick  of  her  loneliness,  and  he 
would  go  and  cheer  her,  and  bring  her  back,  vowing  that 
Constance,  though  she  had  a governess  all  to  herself,  was 
unbearable  Avithout  the  influence  of  Florence. 

‘'Bring  her  back  if  you  can,  I give  you  free  permission;  but 
whether  your  company,  most  gallant  Captain,  will  cheer  her 
loneliness,  or  whether  it  would  be  quite  proper  that  it  should, 
I Avill  not  pretend  to  say.  However,  if  you  bring  her  back, 
you  are  quite  w^elcome  to  go,”  was  Lady  St.  Maur’s  parting 
address,  and  Sir  Eonald  forthAvith  Avent. 

Florence  Avas  not  quite  ready  to  return  to  Amersley,  and 
Sir  Eonald  declared  he  Avould  go  to  Portsmouth  ineanAvhile  ; 
but,  somehoAV  or  other,  there  Avere  several  things  for  which 
Florence  Avas  Avaiting,  and  Avhich  ought  long  before  to  havo 
arrived  from  London,  and  Florence’s  movements  AA^ere  retarded 
by  their  non-arrival ; so  to  London  the  Captain  Avent,  and  by 


woman’s  friendship. 


2S7 


his  sailor-lihe  bustle  and  activity,  all  that  was  needed  came 
down  to  Hampshire  in  a marvellously  short  space  of  time 
and,  this  accomplished,  he  hovered  about  the  neighbourhood 
of  Woodlands,  his  vicinity  perfectly  unknown  to  Florence, 
and,  just  before  Christmas,  escorted  her  back  to  Amersley, 
with  the  paost  brother-like  cordiality  imaginable. 


CHAPTEK  XLVIIL 


THE  HOUR  OF  TRIAL. 


Lord  Edgemere’s  family,  including  Frank  Howard,  and  Minie 
Leslie,  had  arrived  in  Warwickshire  before  Florence  returned, 
and  Lady  St.  Maur  had  driven  over  to  see  them.  Nothing  as 
yet  had  alloyed  the  happiness  of  Minie,  for  Frank  had  found 
it  impossible  to  impart  to  her  his  fears  regarding  his  father. 
Florence  had  heard  repeatedly  from  her  sister,  and  answered 
her  letters  while  at  Woodlands.  She  had  nerved  her  mind  to 
read  those  letters,  radiant  as  they  were  with  love  and  joy, 
again  and  yet  again,  till  the  bitter  pangs  which  they  caused 
were  so  entirely  conquered  that  she  could  peruse  them  from 
beginning  to  end  without  any  visible  emotion.  She  compelled 
herself  to  think  of  meeting  them,  of  looking  once  more  on 
Howard,  and  as  the  betrothed  husband  of  another ; she 
thought  of  it  till  every  feeling  of  her  own  was  conquered,  and 
she  fclieved  herself  nerved  to  meet  them  so  calmly,  so  col- 
lectedly, that  not  a change  of  colour  or  quivering  of  voice 
should  be  betrayed.  But  suspense,  or  rather  the  anticipation 
of  trial,  was  intolerable,  and  she  therefore  wisely  resolved  to 
meet  it  at  once. 

''  Florence,  you  know  not  what  you  undertake ; be  advised, 
there  can  be  no  need  for  it  so  soon,’’  urged  Lady  St.  Maur ; 
but  Florence’s  determination  was  not  to  be  shaken. 

‘^We  must  meet,”  she  answered,  sadly,  yet  firmly;  ‘^why 
should  I defer  it  ? Am  I so  weak  that  I cannot  see  the  fulfil- 
ment of  my  earnest  prayers  without  evincing  emotion  ? No, 
let  me  try  my  strength,  and  then  I can  better  judge  myself, 
and  know  how  to  proceed.” 

And  accordingly,  as  soon  as  the  weather  permitted,  they 


•woman’s  friendship 


289 


went  to  Beech  Vale.  Florence  was  received  with  the  warmest 
cordiality  by  all  the  family  ; the  change  which  they  supposed 
her  severe  illness  had  occasioned  was  sincerely  regretted,  and 
warm  congratulations  on  her  own  legacy  and  her  sister’s  happy 
prospects  followed. 

‘'Minie  and  Frank  are  in  the  east  room;  pray  make  no 
compliments,  dear  Florence,  but  join  them  when  you  like. 
Minie  is  all  impatience  to  see  you,  and  wondered  what  you 
could  find  to  detain  you  so  long  at  Woodlands,  in  this 
miserable  season,”  Lady  Mary  said,  after  some  little  time 
had  elapsed  in  ordinary  conversation.  Frank  only  returned 
from  London  last  night ; I have  seen  him  but  a few  minutes 
this  morning,  and  I fear  that  all  is  not  as  right  as  it  should  be 
—his  face  was  somewhat  overshadowed.” 

It  was  well  she  said  this,  for  now  the  hour  of  trial  had  come. 
Florence  had  felt  for  the  moment  as  if  she  could  not  meet  it ; 
but  recalled  by  Lady  Mary’s  unconscious  intimation  of  what 
she  herself  had  long  anticipated,  her  strength  of  mind  and 
purpose  triumphed,  and  with  unfaltering  steps  she  quitted  the 
apartment. 

In  the  east  room,  as  directed,  she  found  them,  but  the  voice, 
not  of  joy,  but  of  sorrow,  met  her  ear  ; and  so  engrossed  were 
those  she  sought  in  their  own  thoughts,  that  she  stood  for 
some  time  unobserved.  Frank  was  pacing  the  chamber  with 
most  uneven  steps,  his  cheek  highly  coloured,  and  his  eye 
flashing.  Minie’s  arms  were  resting  on  the  table,  her  head 
laid  upon  them,  in  an  attitude  of  complete  despondency,  while 
her  whole  frame  shook  with  sobs.  Her  beautiful  hair  hanging 
loosely  over  her,  concealed  her  face  from  her  sister;  but 
Florence  knew  that  gentle  nature  too  well  to  need  further 
proof  of  suffering  than  what  she  beheld. 

Cruel,  unjust,  capricious  !”  were  the  first  words  she  heard, 
in  Frank’s  most  agitated  voice.  ‘‘With  his  hoards  of  un- 
touched gold,  why  should  he  want  more  ? Why  is  my  happi- 
ness to  be  blighted  simply  because  an  unjust  parent  refuses 
his  consent  to  my  wedding  a portionless  bride  ? Minie,  come 
what  will,  you  must,  you  shall  be  mine ! With  or  without 
his  consent,  I will  claim  the  promise  you  have  made  me.  Are 
we  to  suppress  our  united  happiness  for  no  cause  ? for  this 
refusal  assigns  none.  My  father  has  no  right  to  gall  me  thus ! 
I will  not  bear  it.  What  can  money  or  title  give  me  more 
than  I possess  already?  I seek  happiness  and  love,  not 

u 


290 


WOMAN  S FRIENSBHIP. 


ambition.  Minie,  my  own  sweet  love  ! do  not  weep  thus ; we- 
shall  be  happy  in  each  other  yet.'’ 

No,  Frank,  no ! " replied  Minie,  pushing  back  her  long 
hair,  which  was  wet  wdth  tears,  and  looking  up  in  his  face,  as 
he  bent  over  her  and  clasped  his  arm  around  him.  ^'No, 
precious  as  your  love  is,  I will  not  come  between  you  and  your 
parent.  If  he  cannot  receive  me  as  a daughter,  if  he  thinks 
reverence  and  love — for  I would  give  him  both — are  nothing 
worth,  compared  to  gold,  how  can  I,  how’'  dare  I burden  you 
with  me  ? No,  no  ! I love  you  too  well  to  expose  you  to  your 
father's  wrath.  We  must  wait;  perhaps — " but  her  sweet 
voice  faltered  as  she  spoke — he  will  relent  after  a time,  and 
then—" 

Relent ! " muttered  Frank,  even  while  he  passionately 
kissed  the  upturned  brow,  as  if  to  thank  her  for  the  half- 
whispered  hope ; I never  knew  him  relent  when  once  he 
had  so  spoken.  Why  did  I not  marry  the  heiress,  forsooth, 
he  asked  me ; as  if  his  son  had  power  to  woo  and  wed  whoso- 
ever he  pleased.  Florence ! " he  abruptly  exclaimed,  as, 
lifting  her  head  at  the  moment,  he  met  her  meek  and  gentle 
gaze ; good  God,  how  changed,  how  ill  you  must  have  been ! " 

‘^But  I am  well  now,  Mr.  Howard,  perfectly  well;  therefore 
pray  do  not  judge  me  by  my  looks,"  she  replied,  meeting  his 
glance  with  one  as  ready,  if  not  more  free  from  agitation  than 
his  own ; and  then  she  bent  dowm  to  imprint  repeated  kisses 
on  the  cheek  of  her  sister,  who,  at  Frank's  first  exclamation, 
had  sprung  into  her  arms.  Minie,  darling,  I did  not  expect 
a greeting  of  tears  ; come,  smile.  We  have  not  met  for  a 
long  time,  and  I have  been  ill,  and  you  have  been  happy  ; 
ought  you  not  to  welcome  me  like  your  own  sweet  self  ? 
What  is  this  weighty  grief?  Mr.  Howard,  treat  me  as  the 
sister  you  have  called  me,  and  tell  me  the  particulars  of  what 
I so  imperfectly  heard.  Lord  Glenvylle  objects  to  my  sister 
as  your  bride  because  she  has  no  portion ; is  that  it  ? An  evil 
easily  remedied,  since,  thanks  to  Mrs.  Rivers's  generosity,  my 
sister  is  not  portionless.  I should  have  looked  to  this  long 
ago  had  not  illness  prevented  me  ; but  now  let  me  know  all." 

Frank  seized  her  hand,  and  pressed  it  energetically  to  his 
lips.  If  it  trembled,  and  was  somewhat  hastily  withdrawn, 
he  was  too  much  excited  to  notice  it.  We  will  give  the 
substance  of  this  tale  in  our  own  words,  as  there  were  some- 
points  which,  in  his  relation,  he  purposely  omitted. 


woman’s  fkiendship. 


291 


His  father  had  insisted  he  should  break  off  his  engagement, 
for  that  his  consent  to  his  union  with  any  but  an  heiress,  and 
one  who  could  give  him  either  name  and  title,  or  the  means 
of  purchasing  them,  should  never  be  obtained.  In  vain 
Frank  urged  that  he  had  already  a name,  and  a proud  one ; 
that  his  father’s  title  was  sufhcient  to  content  him.  He  was 
not  ambitious,  and  should  abhor  owing  more  to  his  wife  than 
domestic  happiness  and  love.  Why  should  Lord  Glenvylle 
dwell  so  much  on  a pecuniary  portion  for  his  son’s  bride,  when 
his  wealth  was  already  so  enormous,  and  he,  Frank,  wished  not 
for  a shilling  more  than  his  present  handsome  allowance  ? Lord 
Glenvylle  was  too  cold  and  dignified  a person  to  give  any 
violent  sign  of  anger ; but  he  grew  prouder  and  prouder, 
colder  and  colder,  till  his  son  felt  as  if  he  were  addressing  a 
statue,  and  his  excited  spirits  sunk  back  so  chilled,  that  it  was 
an  effort  to  urge  more.  Yet  still  he  spoke,  for  his  love  was 
too  deep  to  be  banished  by  a parent’s  word.  He  said  that  he 
was  convinced  Minie  would  not  be  portionless ; her  sister 
was  not  one  to  hoard  her  lavish  wealth  : and  then  it  was 
(though  Howard  did  not  repeat  it  to  Florence)  that  the 
Viscount  scornfully  bade  him  woo  the  heiress  instead  of  her 
sister  ! The  possessor  of  Woodlands,  its  rich  pasture  lands 
and  woody  enclosures,  might  be  a fit  wife  for  his  son.  A 
portion ! Lord  Glenvylle  laughed  at  the  idea.  Miss  Leslie 
had  been  too  lately  made  an  heiress  to  give  away  any  part  of 
her  possessions  ; and  even  if  she  did,  nothing  that  she  could 
settle  on  her  sister,  short  of  the  inheritance  itself  would  endow 
her  sufficiently  to  be  Frank  Howard’s  bride.  There  was  alike 
scorn  and  satire  in  every  word : perhaps  there  was  more;  but  icy 
pride  was  aveil  too  invulnerable  for  his  agitated  son  to  penetrate. 
He  used  all  his  eloquence,  yet  never  forgetting  the  respect  he 
always  paid  his  father ; but  his  kindly  feelings  felt  withered 
within  him,  and  when  that  interview  ended,  by  a solemn  declara- 
tion on  the  part  of  Lord  Glenvylle,  that  if  Mr.  Francis  Howard 
persisted  in  wedding  a portionless  girl,  his  allowance  would  be 
stopped  on  the  instant,  and  he  would  find  himself  without  a 
shilling  wherewithal  to  support  liimself  or  bride,  so  let  him 
ponder  ere  he  decided,  Frank  left  his  presence  without 
uttering  a word,  for  speak  he  could  not.  The  hot  blood  had 
mounted  to  his  very  brow,  and  he  bit  his  nether  lip  in  the 
effort  to  restrain  the  bursting  passion,  till  the  blood  came  ; 
but  he  conquered  himself.  Lord  Glenvylle,  in  the  solitary 

u 2 


292 


woman’s  fkiendship. 


moments  of  remorse  which  followed  Frank’s  departure,  could 
not  recall  one  word  in  which  his  son  had  forgotten  their 
relative  positions  of  child  and  parent. 

‘‘  Love  ? pooh ; he  will  soon  get  over  it,”  so  his  lordship 
thought,  as  he  sat  alone  ; but  why  should  I thwart  him 
thus  ? Why ! merciful  heavens  ! if  he  knew  what  is  con- 
suming me — that  I require  an  heiress  for  him  because  wealth, 
gold,  another  title,  may  enable  him  to  rise  up  against  the 
blow  which  one  day  I know  will  fall,  and  on  him,  to  punish 
his  miserable,  guilty  father.  How  know  I that  he  will  inherit 
the  rank  to  which  he  now  looks  forward?  I dare  not  call 
them  his,  for  I know  not  who  may  come  to  claim  them  ; and 
yet  he  believes  I do  not  feel  for  him,  I do  not  love  him — the 
only  being  who  saved  me  from  seeking  death  by  my  own  hand. 
Frank,  my  boy,  my  poor,  poor  boy  ! the  truth  would  be  his 
death.” 

And  could  Frank  have  heard  the  groans  and  sobs  which 
followed  this  soliloquy,  he  w^ould  have  been  spared  one  bitter 
feeling ; for  he  must  have  been  convinced  that  he  was  an 
object  of  love,  however  strangely  and  mysteriously  that  love 
was  proved.  But  he  could  not  know  this,  and  while  more  and 
more  painfully  the  conviction  pressed  upon  him  that  even  the 
small  portion  of  affection  which  he  believed  his  father  had 
once  borne  him,  must  have  dwindled  away  beneath  what 
appeared  only  an  increasing  love  of  gold,  his  heart,  wounded 
and  suffering,  clung  yet  more  fondly  to  the  only  being  on  earth 
by  whom  he  could  believe  himself  beloved.  Break  from  her 
now  ! dissolve  his  engagement ! bid  her,  like  himself,  languish 
in  all  the  lingering  torture  of  hope  deferred  ! he  could  not,  he 
would  not ! No,  did  he  even  forget  his  birth,  and  seek  some 
honest  business  which  could  support  them  both. 

In  this  mood  he  remained  in  London  about  four-and-twenty 
hours,  and  then  galloped  back  to  Beech  Vale.  It  was  easy, 
even  for  indifferent  persons,  to  discover  that  all  was  not  right; 
and  Minie,  unsuspicious  of  all  evil  as  she  generally  was,  found 
some  difficulty  in  preserving  her  joyous  spirits  until  their 
being  alone  permitted  her  to  draw  from  him  the  cause.  Frank 
had  intended  to  conceal,  or  at  least  to  soften  the  facts,  but 
his  nature  was  much  too  impetuous.  Miserable  himself,  and 
therefore  longing  for  sympathy  and  affection,  he  poured  out 
his  whole  soul  to  his  betrothed.  Minie  was  not  one  to  bear 
up  against  an  unexpected  blow  with  fortitude.  She  did  not 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


293 


utter  a syllable  of  complaint,  but  slie  clung  to  him,  and  wept 
unrestrainedly.  Her  grief  of  course  heightened  Frank’s  more 
tumultuary  feelings,  and  occasioned  the  passionate  burst 
which  Florence  had  overheard. 

Although  Howard  did  not  enter  into  all  these  particulars, 
he  related  enough  for  Florence  perfectly  to  comprehend  the 
fact.  Perhaps  her  own  previous  cogitations  on  this  subject 
rendered  her  more  than  usually  clear-sighted.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  though  she  did  not  betray  her  intentions,  the  time  passed 
with  the  lovers  was  not  without  its  fruit.  She  left  them  soothed 
and  hopeful ; they  scarcely  knew  wherefore,  and  their  every 
feeling  of  love  and  veneration  heightened  towards  herself. 

To  the  astonishment  of  Lord  and  Lady  St.  Maur,  the 
following  morning  Florence  announced  an  intention  of  visiting 
London  for  a week  or  two. 

At  this  season,  with  every  appearance  of  snow  setting  in 
for  weeks,  and  blocking  up  the  roads  ! My  dear  Florence, 
you  are  certainly  mad  to  think  of  it,”  exclaimed  the  Countess, 
half  jesting  and  half  in  earnest.  What  business  can  you 
have  so  important  as  not  to  wait  a more  favourable  season  ? 
Do  be  advised.  Strong  as  you  think  yourself,  and  are  mentally, 
physically  you  certainly  are  not,  and  I feel  inclined  to  lay  a 
positive  command  on  you  to  stay  at  home.” 

Pray  do^  not,  dearest  Lady  St.  Maur,  for  indeed  in  this 
case  I cannot  obey  you.  Affairs  of  consequence  to  Minie’s 
happiness  call  me  to  London,  and  must  not  be  delayed.” 

Minie  !”  repeated  the  Countess,  and  her  tone  was  most 
unusually  impatient.  Florence  understood  it. 

Yes,  Minie,  my  dear  friend.  Her  happiness  is  now  mine, 
all  that  at  present,  at  least,  is  left  to  me.  Do  not  grudge  my 
securing  that,  even  though  the  manner  of  doing  so  may  seem 
unwise.  I cannot  now  explain  my  meaning,  only  trust  me  till 
my  return,  and  you  shall  know  all.” 

There  was  an  earnestness  in  her  manner  impossible  to  be 
gainsayed  ; and  accepting  only  the  escort  of  the  faithful 
Ferrers,  Florence  set  off  for  London,  to  Sir  Ronald  Elliott’s 
great  disappointment,  scarcely  ten  days  after  her  return  from 
Woodlands. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 


LOED  GLENVYLLE. — THE  SACEIFICE. 


It  was  one  of  those  dull,  cheerless  mornings  of  January,  the 
snow  falling  at  intervals,  and  the  wind  so  cold  and  cutting 
that  few,  except  those  unhappy  pedestrian  teachers  who  are 
compelled  to  bear  all  weathers,  would  have  ventured  out. 
There  had  been  a heavy  fall  of  snow,  and  then  a thaw,  and 
then  as  rapid  a frost,  so  that  the  thoroughfare  had  the  sem- 
blance of  dirty  glass.  Folks  could  not  walk  fast  for  fear  of 
falling,  and  so  they  shuffled  and  fretted  along,  shivering  with 
the  nipping  wind,  and  looking,  from  their  purple  cheeks,  red 
noses,  and  watery  eyes,  the  very  caricatures  of  misery;  for 
cold,  though  one  of  the  worst  evils  to  encounter,  is  the  most 
ludicrous  to  witness,  and  the  unfortunate  sufferers  receive 
little  sympathy  from  their  warmly-clad  and  warmly-sheltered 
observers. 

From  a small  morning  room  in  one  of  the  mansions  in 
Belgrave  Square,  however,  the  cold  was  so  effectually  excluded 
that  it  had  almost  the  atmosphere  of  summer.  The  sole 
inmate  of  this  comfortable  retreat  was  a man  very  little  more 
than  fifty,  if  years  could  be  counted  by  the  figure,  which  even 
in  a sitting  posture  was  unusually  erect  and  dignified;  his 
face  told  another  tale,  not  so  much  perhaps  of  years,  but  of 
passions  and  their  consequences,  making  him  old  before  his 
time.  The  countenance  had  been  unusually  handsome,  but  it 
was  indented  by  those  strong  lines  about  the  brow  and  mouth 
— the  sure  indexes  of  strong  passions,  held  under  forcible 
restraint  by  some  feeling  yet  stronger  than  themselves.  His 
eyes  were  large,  dark,  and  piercing  ; but  so  seldom  now 
permitted  to  become  expressive,  that  their  natural  brightness 


woman’s  friendship. 


295 


cnever  destroyed  the  stony  calmness  of  the  other  features.  His 
whole  appearance  was  that  of  a solemn  statue,  to  whom  the 
feelings  and  passions  of  mankind  were  now  as  things  unknown, 
and  never,  to  the  recollection  of  any  of  his  domestics,  had 
this  solemn  rigidity  been  disturbed.  Hays,  weeks,  years,  left 
him  untouched  in  outward  appearance,  except  by  mingling  his 
raven  hair  more  profusely  with  grey,  and  deepening  the  lines 
upon  his  brow.  He  seldom  encountered  the  eyes  of  his 
fellows,  for  he  lived  absolutely  alone,  isolated  at  first  by  his 
own  choice,  and  next  by  the  dislike  of  those  whom  he  had 
scorned.  He  was  dressed  with  care,  but  plainly,  and  there 
was  an  absence  of  all  pretension  about  the  room,  which 
seemed  to  denote  that  he  cared  little  for  outward  things  : his 
whole  world  was  within,  and  terrible,  indeed,  at  times,  were 
the  tempests  and  convulsions  of  that  world.  That  though 
devoid  of  pretension,  his  apartment  was  almost  luxurious  in 
comfort,  was  little  owing  to  himself  : his  housekeeper,  incited 
by  her  much-loved  young  master,  had  so  cautiously  and 
gradually  rendered  it  thus,  that  it  grew  upon  him  unconsciously. 

He  was  accused  of  parsimony,  perhaps  with  justice  ; but  a 
miser  he  was  not.  Hoard  wealth  he  did,  strangely  and 
engrossingly,  and  none  could  guess  wherefore  : but  we  must 
check  this  long  digression,  for  though  without  Lord  Glenvylle 
our  tale  would  have  no  connection,  he  is  too  little  known  to 
our  readers  for  more  particular  notice,  especially  as  our  fast 
diminishing  space  warns  us  loudly  to  conclude. 

It  was  near  three  o’clock,  when  a footman  entered,  his  face 
so  expressive  of  astonishment,  that  any  one  but  Lord  Glenvylle 
must  have  demanded  its  cause. 

My  lord ; a lady,  my  lord,  wishes  to  speak  with  your 
lordship.  She  will  take  no  denial.” 

Lord  Glenvylle’s  face  was  always  pale,  or  it  might  have 
appeared  to  become  yet  more  so  ; but  to  the  man’s  increasing 
wonder  his  master  stared  him  in  the  face  without  attempting 
reply. 

“ Shall  I show  her  in  here,  my  lord,  or  into  the  drawing- 
room ; she  is  close  behind  me ; ” and  the  lady,  whoever  she 
might  be,  entered,  supposing  she  had  been  sufficiently  an- 
nounced ere  one  syllable  of  reply  had  passed  Lord  Glenvylle’s 
lips. 

He  rose  involuntarily;  for  no  seclusion,  no  eccentricity 
could  conquer  the  habits  of  the  English  gentleman,  still  so 


29G 


woman's  priendship. 


strong  within.  He  fixed  a glance  on  his  visitor,  with  au 
emotion  which,  could  it  be  possible,  seemed  like  alarm.  She 
was  standing  in  the  shade,  for  the  room  was  thickly  curtained ; 
and  three  o'clock  in  January  is  little  more  than  twilight  : 
her  veil  of  black  crape — for  she  was  in  mourning — was  raised 
indeed,'  but  still  hu-ng  so  much  over  her  face,  as  almost  to 
conceal  it  ; and  however  little  satisfaction  his  penetrative 
glance  could  afford  him,  it  permitted  Lord  Glenvylle  to 
recover  his  voice  and  his  cold  repelling  manner. 

'^1  am  honoured,"  he  said,  sarcastically,  as  his  domestic 
quitted  the  room  : ''  it  is  seldom  that  a lady  deigns  to  enliven 
my  apartments  with  her  presence.  May  I crave  the  reason  of 
this  unusual  honour,  and  the  name  of  my  fair  visitant  ?" 

I am  come  to  answer  both,  my  lord,"  replied  a voice  of 
such  soul-subduing  gentleness,  that  he  winced  beneath  it. 
fear  I intrude,  but  a very  brief  interval  of  attention  will 
suffice  me ; my  name  is  Florence  Leslie,  and  it  is  on  account 
of  your  son,  though  not  sent  by  him,  that  I am  here." 

His  face,  which  had  appeared  about  to  relax,  became  stone 
again,  but  he  motioned  her  to  a chair,  and  sat  down  again 
himself 

''  Leslie  ? Florence  Leslie  ? My  son’s  betrothed  bride,  per- 
chance, for  such  I believe  was  the  name,  come  to  plead  her 
own  cause  with  the  iron-hearted  father.  Madam,  you  should 
have  tried  some  other  method ; I am  not  one  to  melt  at 
woman's  tears." 

Nor  am  I one  to  shed  them,  my  lord,”  she  answered,  with 
a dignity  which  involuntarily  commanded  respect ; nor  would 
the  chosen  bride  of  your  noble  son  demean  herself  in  the 
manner  which  you  are  pleased  to  believe.  No,  Lord  Glenvylle, 
I am  not  Frank  Howard's  chosen  bride,  but  the  sister  of  that 
bride  ; come  hither  not  to  plead,  but  simply  to  know  if  indeed 
the  decree  you  have  pronounced  be  irrevocable,  as  they 
believe  it ; or,  if  by  any  exertion,  any  sacrifice  on  my  part,  it 
can  be  changed.  My  lord,  I am  perchance  too  bold  ; this 
intrusion  upon  one  so  retired,  so  removed  from  the  world — 
perhaps  from  the  feelings  of  the  world — as  yourself,  may  well 
be  regarded  as  unmaidenly,  or,  to  say  the  least,  unwise  ; but 
when  the  whole  heart  is  intent  on  the  furtherance  of  one 
object,  idle  forms  are  wont  to  be  rejected,  and  we  think  only 
of  that  which  we  so  earnestly  wish  to  gain.” 

Lord  Glenvylle  looked  at  her  wifi  surprise,  and  his  tone  was 


woman’s  feiendship. 


297 


somewhat  less  sarcastic  as  lie  answered,  In  this  instance, 
madam,  it  is  a subject  of  regret  that  so  much  enthusiasm 
should  be  wasted.  My  decision  is,  as  my  son  justly  believes, 
irrevocable.” 

And  wherefore,  my  lord  ? Pardon  me,  but  as  your 
affection  for  your  son  has  never  been  doubted,  I cannot 
believe  that  a mere  prejudice  should  obtain  such  an  ascen- 
dency. You  would  not  condemn  Mr.  Howard  to  unhappiness, 
without  some  very  powerful  reason.  My  sister’s  birth  is, 
indeed,  not  noble  ; but  for  aught  else,  my  lord,  she  may  vie 
with  the  highest  and  the  noblest  of  the  land.  See  her,  know 
her,  and  let  her  gentle  virtues,  and  your  son’s  affection,  plead 
for  both.” 

'‘You  are  eloquent.  Miss  Leslie  ; I doubt  not  but  that  the 
object  of  your  interest  is  deserving  of  all  praise.  Prejudice 
against  herself  I have  none.  My  son  must  marry;  I care  little 
whom,  so  he  be  happy.  His  wife  will  be  as  little  worth  to  me 
as  others  of  her  sex.  I am  not  what  men  term  ambitious,  for 
did  a prince’s  daughter  win  his  love,  without  the  power  of 
making  him,  if  need  be,  other  than  he  is,  my  refusal  to  such 
an  union  w^ere  unchangeable  as  now.” 

" Forgive  me,  my  lord  ; but  seeking,  as  I do,  the  happiness 
of  one  so  dear,  this  mysterious  answer  cannot  satisfy  me.  You 
own  that  no  prejudice  actuates  you  against  my  sister;  you  say 
that  you  are  not  ambitious,  that  you  seek  but  your  son’s 
happiness,  and  yet  you  refuse  to  permit  it.  A prince’s 
daughter  can  scarcely  cause  the  same  objection  as  my  sister — 
she  would  have  both  birth  and  fortune — and  yet  your  refusal 
would  extend  to  her.  How,  then,  can  I obviate  objections 
which  seem  so  contradictory  ? I am  rich,  my  lord,  and  can 
well  afford  to  make  my  sister  rich.  Name  that  portion  which 
wdll  endow  her  sufficiently  to  be  the  bride  of  your  son,  and  if 
it  be  within  my  income,  it  is  hers.” 

" Ptiches  have  not  long  been  yours,  they  tell  me,  yet  you 
would  part  with  them.  Strange,  most  strange  !”  replied  Lord 
Glenvylle,  musingly  ; " yet,  perhaps,  not  so ; they  have  not 
been  long  enough  your  own  for  you  to  know  their  value. 
Madam,  take  advice,  ponder  on  their  worth  ere  you  offer  to 
part  with  them.” 

" Value — worth  ! talk  you  of  the  value  of  gold,  compared 
with  the  value  of  haj^piness,  the  enjoyment  of  bestowing  it? 
My  lord,  my  lord,  how  little  you  have  read  the  human  heart!” 


298 


woman’s  friendship. 


I have  read  too  much  of  it,”  he  exclaimed,  starting  up 
with  sudden  emotion,  and  pacing  the  chamber  ; too  much  of 
it ; I have  read  its  annals  in  my  own,  and  they  are  black — 
black  as  the  thoughts  that  torture  ! PshaW;  this  is  folly,  what 
can  have  moved  me  thus  ? a voice,  a woman’s  voice.  Can  I 
not  hear  it  yet  in  peace  ? away  with  the  weak  folly  ! Human 
heart ! Aye,  I have  read  it — read  but  its  dark  page.” 

‘‘  Then  read  another  now,  my  lord,”  replied  Florence,  meekly, 
subduing  with  an  effort  the  alarm  which  his  manner,  almost 
that  of  madness,  caused.  Look  beyond  the  black  veil  you 
have  cast  before  you.  Surely,  surely,  in  the  heart  of  your  son 
may  be  read  whole  pages  of  nobleness,  virtue,  truth,  which 
might  give  a fairer,  lovelier  face  to  humanity.  Did  you  look 
but  there,  the  glow  of  that  heart  would  dissolve  the  clouds 
you  deem  so  black  within  your  own.” 

Lord  Glenvylle  paused  abruptly  before  her.  Why  did  he 
not  love  you  ? ” he  muttered,  it  is  strange  that  any  one  but 
those  deluded  by  love  should  so  read  a human  heart.  Why 
not  trust  his  happiness  to  one  so  capable,  it  would  seem,  of 
appreciating  and  securing  it  ? If  he  had,  there  would  have 
been  no  need  of  all  this  ; I had  consented  without  a word.” 

And  why  so  honour  me,  my  lord,  and  yet  refuse  my  sister 
— younger,  fairer,  in  all  things  more  fitted  to  be  his  bride  ? I 
do  beseech  you  alter  this  decision.  Say  but  what  portion  will 
make  my  sister  in  your  eyes  worthy  as  you  are  pleased  to 
deem  myself,  and  again  I say  it  shall  be  hers.” 

Madam,  I know  not  how  it  can  be;  you  are  an  heiress,  she 
is  nothing;  and  an  heiress  only,  with  my  consent  shall  Francis 
Howard  wed.” 

And  were  Minie  Leslie  heiress  in  the  stead  of  Florence 
Leslie,  would  all  objection  be  removed?  I conjure  you  to 
reply.  Is  it  but  this,  to  become  an  heiress,  and  your  consent 
to  your  son’s  choice  is  gained  ? ” 

Madam,  I repeat  it  is  only  this.”  Florence  clasped  her 
hands  with  sudden  joy.  "‘Aye,”  he  added,  sarcastically,  for 
his  nature  imagined  not  her  meaning,  “ transfer  your  newly- 
acquired  inheritance  to  the  sister  you  so  profess  to  love,  and 
she  shall  be  Frank  Howard’s  bride  ; will  romantic  enthusiasm 
permit  so  great  a sacrifice?  The  world  must  change  its  nature 
first.” 

“Do  you  speak  in  earnest,  my  lord,  or  is  xt  but  sarcastic 
jest  ? Oh  ! do  not  trifle  with  feelings  such  as  these,”  she 


299 


woman’s  feiendship. 

'entreated,  gazing  on  him  with  eyes  which  riveted  his  upon 
hers.  Her  veil  and  bonnet  had  fallen  back,  and,  for  the  first 
time,  her  pale  face  was  fully  revealed.  Tell  me,  I beseech 
you,  promise  me,  that  if  I do  this,  there  shall  be  no  more 
objection  nor  denial,  and  that  Minie  Leslie  shall  be  your  son’s 
bride.” 

Engrossed  in  her  own  emotion,  she  saw  not  that  damp  drops 
had  started  to  Lord  Glenvylle’s  brow,  and  that  he  had  sunk 
back  in  his  chair  as  if  faint  with  some  sudden  pain,  and  pass- 
ing his  hand  across  his  brow,  had  muttered,  '‘Fool,  fool ! what 
right  have  I to  parley  thus  with  women  ? I have  forsworn 
them  ; they  are  all  spectres  of  the  past ; like  or  unlike  the 
same  ! ” and  again  he  started  up,  and  strode  across  the  room. 
Florence  repeated  her  words,  for  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  not 
naught  their  sense  ; and  then  he  paused,  when  every  feature 
which  had  been  a moment  since  convulsed  and  working, 
became  rigid  as  its  wont. 

" I have  said  it,  madam  ; were  my  son’s  choice  an  heiress, 
my  consent  had  never  been  withheld.” 

" You  will  promise  this,  my  lord.” 

"Aye,  in  black  and  white,  if  it  so  please  you.”  She  turned 
hastily  to  the  table,  as  if  eagerly  accepting  the  proposal,  then 
paused.  " No  ; not  yet.  I will  not  claim  it  now.  My  lord, 
I ask  but  your  word,  and  your  honour  is  sufficient  for  my 
trust.  Promise  me,  as  a gentleman,  whose  simple  word  should 
be  far  more  sacred  than  the  mere  stroke  of  pen,  that  if  I bring 
earnest  of  my  sincerity  in  this  matter,  strange  as  it  may  seem 
to  you,  you  will  not  fail  in  yours.  You  will  grant  freely  and 
fully  the  consent  I claim,  and  by  no  word  or  sign  embitter  the 
blessing  which  you  give.  Promise  me  this ; grant  me  one 
more  interview,  it  shall  be  briefer  than  this  has  been,  and  wfith 
my  presence  I will  trouble  you  no  more.” 

" Miss  Leslie,  mysterious  and  incomprehensible  being,  I do 
give  you  this  promise,  and  it  shall  be  sacredly,  solemnly  ob- 
served ; you  may  trust  me  ; your  words  and  manner  are  too 
solemn  for  the  jest  I deemed  them.  Yet  it  cannot  be  : there 
never  yet  was  human  nature  disinterested  as  this.  Pause, 
ponder,  weigh,  ere  romance  becomes  reality  ; you  will  not  be 
enabled  to  retrace  this  step  when  once  taken.  Think  that 
there  will  be  no  return,  no  gratitude  ; build  no  delusive  hope 
on  the  belief  that  generosity,  devotedness,  have  power  to  pur- 
chase love.  Those  you  seek  to  serve  are  too  much  wrapt  in 


300 


woman’s  friendship. 


each  other  to  spare  one  grain  of  love  for  5^ou  ; hope  it  not  ; 
look  not  for  it ; you  will  reap  but  ashes.  I am  not  ambitious. 
No,  no.”  He  grasped  her  arm,  and  his  face  became  livid. 

Miss  Leslie,  there  is  a cause  for  this  seeming  tyranny  ; my 
boy  knows  it  not,  may  never  know  it ; but  he  may  need 
change  of  name,  change  of  heritage.  You  think  me  mad — be 
it  so  ; let  his  wife  give  him  these,  and  whoever  she  be  I care 
not.  Go — go,  make  him  happy  ! My  boy  ! — my  Frank,  and 
— and  God  bless  you.” 

His  grasp  upon  her  arm  became  literally  convulsed ; he 
glared  in  her  face,  and  rushed  from  the  room. 

Florence  looked  after  him,  bewildered,  terrified,  for  she  felt 
convinced  that  words,  look,  and  manner  were  all  madness. 
Was  she  right  in  trusting  to  a promise  from  one  seeming  so 
little  capable  of  keeping  it  ? Surely  it  was  something  more 
than  the  mere  eccentricity  for  which  he  was  noted.  His  words 
had  chilled  her  heart,  but  not  her  purpose.  But  though  the 
glow  of  enthusiasm  had  been  darkened,  the  sustaining  impulse 
remained.  What  was  the  sacrifice  of  riches  to  that  of  heart, 
which  she  had  already  made  ? There  was  neither  pause  nor 
doubting  in  her  purpose.  Strangely  as  he  had  spoken,  she  yet 
firmly  believed  that  Lord  Glenvylle  would  not  deceive  her.  In 
her  hands,  as  she  had  prayed,  was  the  happiness  or  misery  of 
him  she  loved. 


CHAPTER  L. 


PRANK  AND  MINIE  HAPPY. 


Ten  days  sufficed  for  Florence  effectually  to  conclude  the 
business  which  had  brought  her  to  London ; and  on  her  return 
she  found  a merry  party  assembled  at  Amersley  Hall.  Lord 
Edgemere’s  family  had  at  length  accepted  Lord  St.  Maur  s 
often-proffered  invitation,  and  Frank  Howard  and  Minie  Leslie 
were  of  course  of  the  party.  The  joyous  face  of  the  latter 
was  already  dimmed  by  anxiety;  duty  suggested  the  propriety 
of  separating  herself  from  Howard,  till  his  father’s  objections 
could  be  surmounted ; but  this  was  an  act  of  heroism  for 
which  her  nature  was  too  simple,  and  her  love  too  powerful, 
for  her  to  carry  into  effect ; opposed,  too,  as  it  was  by  Lady 
Mary,  who  violently  protested  against  Lord  Glenvylle’s  tyranny, 
ind  vowed  that  it  should  not  be  regarded.  Frank,  she  said, 
vas  old  and  wise  enough  to  choose  and  decide  for  himself. 

Lady  St.  Maur  had  half  wished,  for  Florence’s  sake,  that 
Lord  Edgemere’s  visit  had  been  concluded  before  she  returned, 
or,  at  least,  that  Frank  should  have  left  the  party.  , Something 
in  her  expressive  features  must  have  betrayed  this,  as  she 
affectionately  greeted  her,  for  Florence  answered  her  thoughts. 

“Do  not  fear  for  me,  my  kind  friend,”  she  said,  as  they 
sat  alone  in  the  Countess’s  boudoir ; “I  feel  as  if  I were 
strengthened  to  see  him,  speak  with  him,  even  with  pleasure, 
for  I have  made  him  happy  : he  will  not,  shall  not  know  how, 
until — ” she  paused  a moment,  as  if  gathering  firmness — 
“ until  he  is  my  sister’s  husband,  and  cannot  impose  upon  me 
the  suffering  of  any  resistance  to  my  wishes.  Oh ! Lady  St. 
Maur,  you  said  once,  I should  rejoice  in  Mrs.  Rivers’s  unex- 
pected generosity.  Rejoice ! my  wildest  dream  had  not 
pictured  its  bringing  me  happiness  like  this/' 


302 


woman’s  friendship. 


‘^Florence!  what  have  you  done ?”  inquired  the  Countess, 
startled  almost  into  consciousness ; you  cannot  have  been  so- 
foolish  as  to — ” Florence’s  hand  was  gently  laid  on  her 
mouth. 

^'Do  not  you  call  it  foolish,  Lady  St.  Maur,  or  you  will 
forswear  yourself,  for  you  have  said,  there  may  be  such  a 
thing  as  making  our  own  happiness  by  securing  that  of  others. 
Oh  ! do  not — do  not  chide  your  poor  Florence  for  this.  What 
can  I look  to  for  personal  happiness  ? What  can  my  thousands 
bring  to  me  but  increase  of  care  ? I have  known  only  misery 
since  they  became  mine  ; not  indeed  through  them,  but  they 
have  become  so  associated  with  suffering,  that  I loathe  their 
very  name.  Why  should  it  be  folly  then  to  act  as  I have 
done,  to  go  back  to  that  station  in  which  I was  so  happy  ? 
Dependent,  indeed,  Lam  not.  No,  no  ! Had  I not  reserved 
that  which  I felt  was  sufficient  for  my  need,  aye,  for  doing 
what  little  good  I can,  they  would  have  pressed  it  on  me ; I 
should  have  been  compelled  to  look  one  day  for  return,  for 
gratitude  from  those  whom  I had  served,  and  that,  that  I 
could  not  do.  Dearest  Lady  St.  Maur,”  she  exclaimed,  with 
increasing  agitation,  do  not  refuse  me  this : let  me  still 
retain  the  station  I have  occupied  in  your  family — the  best, 
oh  ! how  much  the  best  for  me.  How  could  I have  mingled 
with  the  world,  or  performed  what  is  naturally  expected  from 
Mrs.  Rivers’s  heiress,  with  the  bitter  consciousness  of  what  I 
am  ? Should  I not  feel  more  and  more  painfully  that  I was 
imposing  myself  upon  the  world  for  what  I am  not  ? But  in 
your  household,  still  your  chosen  friend.  Lady  Helen’s  com- 
panion, aiding  you  in  rearing  your  sweet  children  to  be  like 
yourself.  There  may  be  happiness  in  store  for  me  yet,  or  at 
least  calmness,  cheerfulness,  peace.  Oh ! do  not  say  I have 
acted  unwisely;  I have  made  no  sacrifice;  done  nothing  I 
could  wish  undone  ; indeed,  indeed  I have  not.  Let  me  live 
with  you,  be  your  lowly  Florence  still;”  and  a burst  of 
passionate  tears  choked  that  eloquent  appeal. 

Lady  St.  Maur  could  not  condemn,  could  not  say  one  word 
against  a resolution  which,  formed  as  some  cold-hearted  people 
might  deem  it,  on  mere  romantic  enthusiasm,  had  yet  been 
acted  upon  with  a forethought  and  deliberation  which  pre- 
cluded all  idea  of  after  regret.  She  endeavoured  only  to 
soothe  her  friend’s  unwonted  excitement.  She  promised  that 
all  should  be  as  she  wished.  She  would  not  condemn ; would 


Js-r;!  i 


-fv4'’ 


i - '.SS>>.- 


^■iA, 


k^. 

icilc.. 


M: 


woman’s  friendsiiip. 


303 


not  refuse  lier  sanction  to  it,  however  such  decision,  on  the 
part  of  Florence,  might  occasion  her  regret. 

Before  the  dressing-bell  sounded.  Lord  St.  Maur  and  Lord 
Edgemere  were  summoned  to  the  Countess’s  boudoir,  and 
Florence  answered  so  calmly,  so  decisively,  all  their  prudent 
arguments,  to  prove  that  her  course  of  acting  was  neither  wise 
nor  positively  demanded,  and  therefore  she  might  still  repent 
it,  that  they  found  it  was  useless  to  persist,  and  acquiesced, 
though  with  regret,  in  all  she  desired ; promising  to  take  all 
further  law  business  out  of  her  hands,  and  so  contrive  it 
that  the  bridegroom  elect  should,  as  she  particularly  wished, 
be  ignorant  of  his  bride’s  fortune  till  his  wedding-day. 

To  Lord  Edgemere  this  resolution  was  a subject  alike  of 
astonishment  and  mystery.  To  Lord  St.  Maur  it  was  neither. 
He  could  understand  the  feeling  which  dictated  this  line  of 
conduct,  and  how  painfully  she  would  shrink  from  anything 
of  publicity  or  notoriety  attending  it ; and  while  he  regretted 
the  decision,  he  honoured  her  with  a larger  portion  of  reverence 
and  esteem  than  he  believed  any  woman  could  have  had  power 
to  excite,  except  his  wife ; and  he  inwardly  blushed  at  the 
idle  prejudice  which,  even  for  an  hour,  could  have  suggested 
the  idea  of  banishing  such  a being  from  the  friendship  of  his 
Ida. 

‘‘1  bring  you  news,  joyous  news,  my  gentle  sister,”  exclaimed 
Florence,  after  completing  the  business  of  the  toilette,  and 
finding  her  sister  in  a favourite  sitting-room,  opening  into  the 
greenhouse  ; give  that  to  Mr.  How^ard — to  Frank,”  she  added, 
determined  to  pronounce  his  name,  and  see  if  its  mystic 
characters  have  not  power  to  change  that  anxious  look  into 
your  former  sweet  smiles.” 

Frank  was  not  far  off ; and  overhearing  Florence’s  words, 
bounded  into  the  room  again  just  as  Minie,  with  a cry  of  joy, 
called  upon  his  name.  My  father’s  hand  and  seal !”  he 
ejaculated,  almost  breathless.  ''Can  he  have  relented — 
granted  my  request  ? Oh,  it  is  impossible  !”  The  letter  was 
torn  open  as  he  stood,  Minie  clinging  to  his  arm,  devouring 
with  him  its  contents.  For  a full  minute  Florence  calmly 
looked  on  them  both  ; but  when  Frank  suddenly  caught  Minie 
to  his  bosom,  bursting  forth  into  a wild  passionate  cry  of  joy, 
her  heart  turned  sick,  and  every  pulse  stood  still.  A minute, 
and  the  pang  passed ; and  well  it  was,  for  the  next  moment 
Frank  was  ad  her  side,  clasping  her  hand,  and  pouring  forth 


Ti'OMAN’s  FRIENDSHIP. 


504 

thanks,  blessings,  inquiries,  all  in  a breath ; while  Minie 
could  only  throw  herself  on  her  neck,  and  weep  for  very  joy. 

Be  satisfied,  my  dear  friend,”  she  said,  when  he  permitted 
her  to  speak,  and  her  voice  was  quite  calm  ; I have  gained 
Lord  Glenvylles  unconditional  consent.  Nothing  can  now 
interfere  with  your  happiness — indulge  it  without  alloy  ; and 
let  me  enjoy  the  thought  that  I have  gained  it,  without 
farther  question.  Best  satisfied  that  to  procure  this  consent 
I have  done  nothing  that  I can  ever  regret ; nothing  that  has 
occasioned  or  can  occasion  me  one  moment’s  feeling  which  you, 
as  a brother,  could  have  wished  otherwise.  That  my  journey 
to  London,  and  brief  detention  there,  was  on  your  account, 
I will  not  deny ; but  do  not  ask  me  more,  for  indeed  I wdll 
not  answer.” 

Frank  looked  at  her  doubtingly,  almost  sorrowfully  ; but 
playful  as  was  her  manner,  it  was  too  decided  to  be  evaded. 

Tell  me  but  one  thing,”  he  said  earnestly,  dearest  Florence; 
only  tell  me  that  to  obtain  this  consent  so  unexpected,  from 
one  like  my  father,  you  have  made  no  sacrifice  to  whigji 
your  friends  can  object ; tell  me,”  he  rejoined,  taking  both 
her  hands,  and  looking  her  full  in  the  face.  Florence,  I 
must  have  an  answer,  if  you  would  not  destroy  my  new  found 
happiness  at  once.” 

‘‘  Be  answered,  then,”  she  said  ; I have  both  the  consent 
and  assistance  of  my  friends  in  all  that  I have  done.  And 
for  your  father,  judge  him  not  too  harshly ; I am  sure  he 
loves  you — seeks  but  your  happiness.  Now  will  you  be  satis- 
fied,” she  added,  smiling,  or  must  I name  the  portion  I have 
settled  on  your  bride  ?” 

Perish  the  thought !”  indignantly  burst  from  Howard.  I 
would  that  she  had  none,  none  but  her  own  lovely  face  and 
lovelier  mind ; that  the  world  might  know  there  is  one 
heart  that  can  enshrine  affection  without  a thought  of  that 
hated  framework — ^gold  ! ” 

The  first  dinner-bell  sounding  at  that  moment,  saved 
Florence  all  reply.  Many  of  Lady  St.  Maur’s  guests  being 
eager  to  welcome  and  converse  with  her,  it  was  no  very  ^eat 
matter  of  surprise  that  she  should  leave  Frank  and  Minie  to 
their  own  happiness,  and  find  a seat  during  the  remainder  of 
the  evening  elsewhere. 

It  was  a joyous  evening  in  the  halls  of  Amersley.  Frank 
was  so  universally  beloved,  that  the  ban  being  removed  from 


woman’s  friendship. 


305 


his  happiness  was  a source  of  real  rejoicing.  The  hours  sped 
in  the  dance  and  song ; though  both  grated  somewhat  harshly 
on  the  feelings  of  the  noble  hostess,  for  she  knew  how  they 
must  fall  on  the  heart  of  one  in  that  lordly  room.  She  looked 
towards  her  friend,  often  tremblingly;  but  there  was  still  a 
smile  on  her  pale  lip,  and  her  eye  was  radiant.  Was  it  but 
excitement?  or  would  indeed  her  noble  spirit  carry  her 
throughout,  and  create  its  own  reward  ? She  did  not  dance  ; 
but  for  that  her  late  illness  was  sufficient  excuse,  and  it 
elicited  no  remark.  Sir  Eonald  Elliott  preferred  remaining  by 
her  side,  defending  himself  against  all  the  raillery  of  his  com- 
panions by  declaring  the  dance  was  too  landsman  and  too 
savage  an  exercise  for  him  ; and  Florence  alternately  conversed 
with  him  and  others  of  the  elder  guests,  with  all  her  wonted 
calm  and  earnest  manner,  on  various  subjects,  the  whole 
evening. 

The  25th  of  March  had  been  fixed  for  Lady  Mary’s  wedding- 
day,  and  Frank  was  eloquent  in  his  entreaties  that  Minie 
would  consent  to  become  his  on  the  same  morning.  Lord 
Glenvylle  (to  whom  Frank  had  flown  on  the  wings  of  gratitude 
the  day  following  Florence’s  return)  was  anxious  for  the 
speedy  solemnization  of  his  son’s  happiness.  Lady  Mary  and 
Melford  seconded  his  entreaties,  laughingly  desiring  the  eclat 
of  a double  marriage  ; and  Florence,  when  appealed  to  by 
her  blushing  and  trembling  sister,  advised  the  granting  her 
lover’s  request.  It  was  not  quite  a year  after  their  mother’s 
death,  but  so  near  it  that  the  pleading  another  month  of 
mourning  had  little  effect  on  Frank’s  impatience.  The  25tli 
of  March,  then,  was  the  day  fixed ; and,  as  Lady  Mary  was 
to  be  married  from  her  father’s  house  in  London,  whither  they 
adjourned  after  leaving  Amersley,  Florence  determined  on 
taking  a house  in  town  for  the  two  following  months,  that  her 
sister’s  elegant  trousseau  might  be  prepared  together  with 
Lady  Mary’s,  and  all  things  relative  to  her  marriage  be 
conducted  with  the  refined  taste  natural  to  Florence,  and 
demanded  by  Minie’s  future  prospects. 

Lord  and  Lady  St.  Maur  expected  to  be  in  London  about 
the  middle  of  February,  and  directly  after  her  sister’s  marriage 
Florence  was  to  return  to  them.  More  than  this  Minie  did 
not  require,  satisfied  with  her  sister’s  assurance  that  she 
should  ' not  be  lonely — that  in  all  she  had  done  she  liad 
secured  her  individual  happiness,  as  far  as  it  lay  in  her  own 

X 


306 


WOMAN'S  FRIENDSHIP. 


power.  Vainly  Minie  remonstrated  that  the  rich  materials 
selected  for  her  trousseau — the  elegant  though  simple  ornaments 
which  Florence  presented  to  her — were  unsuited  to  her  station. 

Unsuited,  and  you  the  sister  of  an  heiress ! about  to  be 
the  bride  of  the  heir  to  a viscountcy.  Shame  on  you,  dearest. 
I will  not  permit  you  to  dispute  my  taste.  As  long  as  you 
are  under  my  roof,  you  must  submit  to  my  authority.  When 
you  leave  that  for  the  home  of  your  husband,  my  beloved  girl, 
spare  me  but  your  affection  ; let  no  circumstance,  no  accident 
come  between  my  memory  and  your  heart,  and  I will  ask  no 
more.” 

“ Spare  you  my  affection  ! Florence,  dearest,  kindest ! can 
you  think  that  aught  of  individual  joy  can  lesson  the  ties,  or 
diminish  the  affection  of  nearly  nineteen  years  ? Oh,  have 
we  not  grown  from  childhood  to  youth  together  ? together 
struggled  against  the  ills  of  life  ? wept  at  each  other’s  sorrows, 
shared  all  returning  joys  ? Have  I not  ever  looked  up  to  you 
as  even  more  than  a sister,  and  you  on  me  as  combining  child 
and  sister  both  ? Love  ! oh,  until  death  ! no  image,  not  even 
of  husband  or  child,  can  come  between  us,  Florence  I ” and 
overpowered  with  unusual  emotion,  Minie  flung  herself  im- 
petuously into  her  sister  s arms,  and  wept. 


CHAPTER  LI. 


THE  DEED  OF  GIFT. 


It  was  over ; that  day  of  smiles  and  tears,  too  full  of  feeling 
for  entire  joy,  too  twined  with  hope  to  be  all  sadness.  We 
leave  to  others,  more  experienced  in  such  matters,  the  task 
of  dilating  on  the  brilliant  coup  d'oeil  which  St.  Margaret’s 
Chapel,  Westminster,  presented  on  the  occasion  of  the  double 
marriage  of  the  Right  Honorable  Alfred  Melford  to  the  Lady 
Mary  Villiers,  second  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Edgemere  ; and 
that  of  the  Honourable  Francis  Howard,  M.P.,  son  and  heir 
to  Viscount  Lord  Glenvylle,  with  Minie  Leslie,  younger 
daughter  — so  Lord  St.  Maur  expressly  inserted  in  the 
Morning  Post — of  Edward  Leslie,  Esquire,  deceased.  We 
have  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  enter  into  detail  on  the 
splendour  of  the  dresses,  the  noble  company,  most  of  which 
were  of  the  highest  and  loveliest  of  the  aristocracy  ; the 
demeanour  of  the  brides,  and  of  their  respective  bridegrooms; 
the  refined  and  highborn  elegance  of  the  elder  bride,  the 
resplendent  loveliness  of  the  younger  ; all  of  which  might 
occupy  some  half-dozen  pages.  Suffice  it  that  the  Morning 
Post  and  Court  Journal  were  compelled  to  banish  columns  of 
irrelevant  matter,  and  disappoint  some  dozen  eager  correspon- 
dents, to  find  room  to  do  justice  to  the  exciting  subject. 

From  the  hands  of  Lord  St.  Maur  the  enraptured  Howard 
received  his  bride  ; and  close  by  the  side  of  Minie,  to  whom 
she  had  acted  the  part  alike  of  mother  and  sister,  knelt  one 
on  whom  alone,  midst  all  that  brilliant  assemblage,  the 
Countess  St.  Maur’s  thoughts  were  fixed  ; she  saw,  felt  but 
for  her ; yet  there  was  no  expression  in  those  gentle  features, 
no  movement  in  that  graceful  form,  which  could  account  for 

X 2 


308 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


such  anxious  thoughts.  Grave  she  was,  and  pale ; but  the 
impressive  service  in  which  her  young  sister  bore  a part  so 
important  was  sufficient  to  account  for  this ; her  whole  soul 
was  wrapt  in  prayer  for  Minie.  If  Howard’s  name  mingled  in 
those  fervent  orisons,  if  his  happiness  were  besought,  together 
with  his  sister’s,  was  it  marvel  ? Had  they  not  become  one, 
and  could  the  bliss  of  one  henceforth  be  perfect,  distinct  from 
the  other  ? No  ! she  looked  upon  the  two,  kneeling  in  their 
first  and  loveliest  prime  beside  the  altar ; it  was  her  work, 
and  she  was  strengthened  to  endure  it. 

The  wedding-breakfast,  which  might  rather  have  been 
termed  a banquet,  from  its  splendour,  was  at  Lord  Edgemere’s ; 
his  wife’s  persuasions  having  overruled  Florence’s  desire  that 
Minie  should  return  to  her  house  ; the  wedding-party  would 
by  such  arrangement.  Lady  Edgemere  urged,  be  so  divided. 

Woodlands  had  been  prepared  for  Minie  and  Frank, 
Florence  had  so  earnestly  entreated  them  to  make  that  their 
home,  at  least  for  a time  after  their  marriage,  that  they  had 
willingly  acceded.  At  four  they  prepared  to  set  off ; and 
then  it  was,  after  changing  her  sister’s  bridal  robe  for  her 
travelling  costume  (the  young  bridesmaids  having  feelingly 
retired,  to  leave  the  sisters  together  ere  they  parted),  that 
Florence  placed  in  the  hand  of  Minie  a sealed  packet 
Keep  it,  or  give  it  to  Frank’s  care,  dearest,”  she  said ; 
‘^and  a day  or  two  hence  it  may  afford  you  some  little  interest 
to  examine  it.  Only  remember  this  : believe  not,  for  a single 
instant,  that  its  contents  have  afforded  me  a moment’s  regret, 
still  less  a moment’s  pain.  Solemnly  and  sacredly  I assure 
you  that  no  circumstance  in  my  whole  life  ever  afforded  me 
the  satisfaction,  the  happiness  which  were  comprised  in  the 
signing  of  that  packet.  Tell  this  to  Frank,  and  conjure  him 
from  me  to  believe  this  attestation,  as  if  it  had  been  given 
upon  oath.” 

Minie  had  no  time  to  answer,  save  by  the  tears,  half  of  joy, 
half  of  timidity,  which  still  kept  her  clinging  to  Florence, 
even  after  her  toilette  was  concluded.  Frank  had  come  to 
seek  her  ; gently  he  detached  her  from  her  sister’s  fond 
embrace,  bore  her  through  their  thronging  friends,  and  placed 
her  in  his  carriage  ; but  then  for  a brief  minute  he  returned ; 
he  was  alone  with  Florence,  and  he  clasped  her  cold  hand  in 
his: — '^Farewell!”  he  said,  with  emotion.  Florence,  we 
shall  think  of  you  in  our  happiness,  and  bless  you  for  its 


woman’s  feiendship. 


309 


bestowal.  My  sister  now,  God  bless  yon,  you  will  not  refuse  a 
brother  s kiss.”  He  held  her  to  him,  and  printed  a long  kis5 
upon  her  cheek ; the  next  moment  he  was  gone.  Sister  ! 
brother  ! the  words  thrilled  through  her,  as  spoken  by  some 
other  voice  than  man’s  ; the  room  began  to  reel  round.  Buf 
not  then  might  she  unloose  the  iron  chain  of  self-control ; sk^ 
heard  Lady  Mary  and  young  Melford  calling  on  her  name,  as 
W’aiting  to  bid  her  farewell ; and  she  obeyed  the  summons  : 
she  mingled  with  the  world  again,  and  not  till  eleven  o’clock 
that  night  was  she  alone — alone. 

* -jf  * * -jf  -jf 

''By  the  way,  Minie,  love,  have  you  ever  examined  that 
mysterious  packet,  which  you  told  me  Florence  gave  you  just 
before  you  parted?”  inquired  Howard,  the  fourth  morning 
after  their  marriage.  Minie  was  looking,  if  possible,  lovelier 
than  ever,  and  superintending,  with  newly-acquired  dignity, 
the  breakfast-table. 

"Indeed  I never  thought  of  it  again,”  was  the  reply. 
"And  yet  I ought  not  to  have  forgotten  it,  for  Florence 
seemed  so  anxious  that  we  should  not  blame  her  for  its 
contents.  What  can  it  be  ? All  deeds  and  settlements,  and 
those  disagreeable  things,  were  concluded  before  we  were 
married,  Avere  they  not  ?” 

" Yes,  love ; so  I hope  and  believe ; but  as  to  this  packet 
our  curiosity  may  easily  be  satisfied  ? Where  is  it  ? ” 

"In  my  dressing-case  ; Jane  knows.  Shall  I ring,  and  tell 
her.” 

"No,  Mrs.  Howard,”  replied  her  husband,  laughing;  and 
putting  his  arm  caressingly  round  her,  as  she  half  sprung  up ; 
" certainly  not,  while  I am  by  to  ring  it  for  you.  Will  you 
never  learn  that  you  are  a very  important  personage  now — 
oven  a wife ; and  husbands,  young  ones  more  especially,  are 
bound  to  perform  such  little  offices.  When  I am  old  and 
gouty,  you  shall  do  them  for  me.” 

" I am  afraid  that  I shall  be  much  in  the  same  predicament, 
Frank ; and  then  what  will  become  of  us  ? ” she  said,  laughing. 
"I  will  tell  you,”  she  added,  a moment  afterwards;  and 
leaning  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  she  warbled  forth  with 
inexpressible  sweetness  two  or  three  verses  of  that  exquisite 
ballad,  "John  Anderson,  my  Jo;  ” so  entrancing  Frank,  that 
the  packet  might  again  have  been  forgotten,  had  not  the 
servant  entered  in  answer  to  the  bell. 


310 


WOMAJt^’S  FRIENDSHIP. 


At  length  the  important  papers  made  their  appearance,  and 
Frank  carelessly  broke  the  seal,  Minie  leaning  over  him  as  he 
did  so. 

Why,  what  in  the  world  is  this ; a lawyer’s  paper  ? I 
thought  I had  done  with  all  those  annoyances,”  was  his  first 
exclamation.  It  had  scarcely,  however,  escaped  his  lips,  ere 
it  gave  way  to  another,  in  which  wonder  and  regret  were  so 
intimately  blended,  that  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish  one 
from  the  other. 

‘"What,  after  all,  is  it,”  simply  asked  Minie,  ‘Hhat  can 
cause  you  so  much  agitation  ? ” 

What  is  it,  dearest  ? ” he  replied,  much  moved,  ''what  but 
a deed  of  gift,  making  you  heiress  of  Woodlands,  and  all  its 
extensive  possessions,  with  the  sole  exception  of  a paltry  five 
hundred  a year,  instead  of  your  noble  sister,  from  whom  it 
comes.  AH,  all  is  made  over  to  you,  without  a single  reserva- 
tion or  clause,  except  that  which  I have  named.” 

" Made  over  to  me  ! Making  me  heiress  instead  of  Florence  I 
No,  no.  Oh!  do  not,  pray  do  not  let  her  do  so,”  answered 
Minie,  entreatingly,  when  astonishment  permitted  her  to  com- 
prehend the  truth.  " Pray,  make  her  take  it  back  ; what  can 
I want  more  than  I have  ? If  I had  but  you  alone,  with  not 
a luxury  of  life,  with  only  the  home  I had  when  my  poor 
brother  lived,  I should  be  happier,  richer,  more  to  be  envied 
than  a crowned  queen  ! What  can  I want  more,  my  own 
dear,  generous  Florence  ? Do  not  let  her  make  this  sacrifice. 
Why  should  she  have  done  it  ? ” 

" Why,  my  beloved  ? Alas  ! it  is  too  clear  now.  This  is 
the  sacrifice  which  won  my  father’s  consent.  You  were  made 
an  heiress,  and  of  course  his  prejudices  were  all  removed. 
Fool  that  I was,  not  to  suspect  something  of  the  truth  ! 
Even  if  I were  so  mistaken  in  my  father,  as  to  believe  for  a 
moment  he  could  have  relented  without  some  more  powerful 
incentive  than  mere  eloquence,  there  was  something  strange 
about  the  manner  of  Lord  St.  Maur  and  Lord  Edgemere, 
which,  had  I not  been  a dolt,  an  idiot,  must  have  awakened 
my  suspicions.  Noble,  generous  Florence ! what  do  we  not 
owe  to  her  1 ” 

" But  can  it  not  in  part,  be  recalled  ; must  we  permit  the 
sacrifice,  dearest  Frank  ? How  can  I bear  to  feel  the  wrong 
she  has  done  herself  for  me  ? Is  there  no  way  of  eluding  this 
deed  of  gift,  of  compelling  her  to  recall  it  ? ” 


woman's  friendship. 


311 


None,  dearest : it  is  much  too  late  now.  See  how  long 
ago  the  deed  was  drawn  up,  and  the  signature  affixed — ever 
since  she  made  that  hasty  visit  to  London ! Little  did  I 
imagine  wherefore.  And  that  Lord  St.  Maur  and  Lord 
Edgemere  could  consent,  nay,  encourage  this  by  becoming 
your  trustees  ! What  could  have  made  them  do  so  ? " 

My  sister’s  persuasions,”  replied  Minie,  sorrowfully ; 
^Hheir  belief  in  her  assertion  that  they  more  efiectually 
secured  her  happiness  by  doing  than  by  preventing  this.  Oh, 

I Imow  her  so  well ! She  never  thought  a moment  of  herself, 
except  in  encouraging  the  belief  that  every  sacrifice,  even  in 
little  things,  was  greater  happiness  than  the  doing  of  justice 
to  herself.  And  she  believes,  feels  all  she  professes : the 
message  she  gave  me  for  you  when  you  read  this  packet 
proves  it.” 

What  message  ? ” ♦ 

She  repeated  it  as  it  had  been  given.  Frank  was  deeply 
affected,  and  compelled  to  be  convinced.  The  manner  in 
which  it  had  been  accomplished,  the  absence  of  all  display,  all 
assumption  in  the  sacrifice,  the  secresy  in  which  it  had  been 
carried  on,  did  but  enhance  its  value ; although  to  generous 
natures,  every  individual  benefit  received  at  so  heavy  a price, 
must  be  intimately  mingled  with  alloy. 

We  need  not  linger  on  the  conversation  which  followed — 
how  Frank  longed  to  travel  post  to  London,  and  speak  with 
Florence,  but  was  dissuaded  by  Minie,  who  intuitively  felt 
that  to  her  sister’s  sensitive  feelings,  such  a visit  would  give 
more  pain  than  pleasure — how  he  at  that  very  moment  made 
the  resolution  that  the  first  hour  it  was  in  his  power,  should 
he  ever  become  Lord  Glenvylle,  he  would  restore  Florence  the 
heritage  she  had  resigned.  Both  then  wrote,  pouring  out  all 
their  heart’s  eloquence  to  Florence  : and  Howard  giving  vent 
to  something  very  like  indignation  to  both  the  trustees  of  his 
wife,  for  permitting-  such  a sacrifice.  With  regard  to  Lord 
Glenvylle,  Frank’s  emotions  were  almost  all  full  of  bitterness. 
We  may  here  state,  that  in  the  very  next  interview  he  had 
with  his  father,  Frank  did  speak  much  more  reproachfully 
than  his  wont,  but  received  very  little  satisfaction  from  the 
doing  so,  except  the  conviction  that  if  the  deed  of  gift  had 
not  been  made,  Minie  could  not,  in  his  father’s  lifetime  at 
least,  have  become  his  wife.  That  this  truth  did  much 
towards  reconciling  him  to  the  acceptance  of  the  sacrifice  may 


312 


woman’s  friendship. 


be  believed  ; but  while  it  increased  his  veneration  and  regard 
for  the  bestower,  it  certainly  could  not  soften  his  feelings 
towards  the  demander,  or  enable  him  more  clearly  to  under- 
stand the  latter’s  ever  incomprehensible  character. 

It  so  happened  that  Florence’s  unexpressed  but  most  earnest 
wishes  were  gratified.  She  did  not  see  Howard  and  his  young 
bride  in  the  first  excitement  of  their  ardent  gratitude.  Frank 
had  been  appointed  envoy- extraordinary  to  the  Court  of 
Hanover,  on  a mission  likely  to  detain  him  there  till  autumn ; 
permission  for  his  bride  to  accompany  him  had  been  gTaciously 
accorded,  but  so  sudden  was  the  nomination,  and  its  attendant 
removal,  that  notwithstanding  all  their  exertion,  to  Minie’s 
great  grief,  they  wxre  compelled  to  embark  without  visiting 
Amersley,  where  Florence  then  was  with  Lady  Helen  : she  had 
preferred  returning  to  the  country  to  remaining  in  London 
with  the  Ehrl  and  Countess,  both  being  then  much  engaged, 
and  before  Frank  and  Minie  had  returned  from  Germany, 
Florence  had  left  England. 


CHAPTER  LIL 


ON  THE  SEA.r— TO  ITALY. — RESIGNATION. — A CHEERING  RAY. 


Gorgeously  and  majestically  an  August  sun  was  sinking 
within  the  blue  waters  of  the  placid  Mediterranean,  the 
evening  on  which  we  resume  the  fast  decreasing  thread  of  our 
narrative;  blue  waters  in  such  an  hour,  indeed,  they  were  not; 
for  their  unruffled,  tideless  expanse  gave  back  with  fidelity, 
magnificent  as  the  original,  every  glowing  tint  of  the  sunset 
sky.  There  was  a stillness  in  the  atmosphere,  unconsciously 
whispering  peace ; and  even  when  broken  by  the  sounds  of 
music  floating  from  yacht  or  frigate — for  it  seemed  to  unite 
the  characteristics  of  the  two — the  calm  was  rather  deepened 
than  disturbed.  The  little  breeze  there  was,  filled  the  snow- 
white  sails,  and  the  gallant  vessel  scudded  over  the  waves, 
leaving  behind  her  a line  as  of  silver,  to  mark  her  onward 
track.  She  was  evidently  English  built  and  English  manned, 
and  from  the  excessive  neatness  of  her  decks,  the  beauty  and 
order  of  her  rigging,  and  those  many  nameless  little  things 
observable  only  in  well-appointed  ships,  appeared  the  pride 
and  glory  alike  of  her  captain  and  her  crew.  There  was  a 
gay,  striped  awning  over  the  quarter-deck,  where  couches  and 
chairs  were  scattered.  A band  of  wind-instruments  occupied 
the  forecastle,  ever  and  anon  sending  forth  strains  which 
called  back  dear  old  England,  and  the  musical  novelties  of 
the  past  season.  A group  of  young  midshipmen,  variously 
employed,  now  assembled  midway,  near  the  band ; while  other 
of  the  officers,  and  gentlemen  of  Lord  St.  Maur  s suite,  were 
indiscriminately  scattered  on  the  quarter-deck,  and,  arm-in- 
arm, earnestly  conversing  as  they  paced  up  and  down,  were 
the  Earl  himself  and  the  captain  of  the  gallant  little  frigate, 
Sir  Ronald  Elliott. 


314 


woman’s  friendship. 


On  one  of  the  couches  lay  Florence  Leslie,  pale,  attenuated, 
yet  with  an  expression  of  such  deep  repose  upon  her  features, 
that  it  seemed  as  if,  indeed,  the  inward  tempest  had  been 
stilled,  and  all  was  once  more  peace.  No  visible  illness  had 
attacked  her  since  her  sister’s  marriage,  but  strength  and  flesh 
had  so  dwindled,  that  she  had  been  compelled  to  give  up  one 
employment  after  another,  until  at  length  she  could  not  leave 
the  drawing-room,  save  for  her  own  apartment ; yet  so  far  was 
she  from  feeling  ill,  that  she  had  striven  long  with  Lady  St. 
Maur’s  desire  to  have  advice,  and  only  consented  in  order  to 
please  her  friend.  Sir  Charles  had  recommended  very  easy 
travelling  to  another  more  genial  climate,  and  a sea-voyage, 
could  they  but  ensure  one  of  even  temperature  and  without 
storms.  Every  one  laughed  at  Sir  Konald  Elliott,  who  in- 
stantly proposed  fitting  out  a sort  of  frigate-yacht,  which  he 
would  convey  round  to  the  south  of  France,  where  they  might 
join  him  by  very  easy  stages  through  tliat  country  ; and  a 
cruise  in  the  Mediterranean,  touching  at  those  ports  where 
there  was  anything  worth  seeing ; this  excursion  combining  a 
residence  for  a short  period  in  Italy,  and,  if  still  necessary,  a 
farther  cruise  in  the  Adriatic,  would  be,  he  was  certain,  more 
beneficial  than  any  other  change.  Sir  Charles  warmly 
approved  the  plan,  declaring  it  would  be  almost  as  good  for 
Lord  St.  Maur  as  for  Florence  herself ; for,  however  brave  and 
strong  the  former  might  consider  himself,  he  would  be  all  the 
better  for  leaving  England  and  her  politics,  and  revelling  for  a 
time  in  all  the  dolce  far  niente  of  lair  Italy. 

It  so  chanced  that  Lord  St.  Maur  could  at  that  time  easily 
obtain  leave  of  absence,  and,  to  the  astonishment  of  all  his 
friends,  he  was  most  particularly  anxious  to  revisit  Italy  for  a 
short  interval. 

Italy  ! would  Florence  indeed  visit  Italy  ? her  birth-place^ 
the  land  associated  with  so  many  day-dreams  of  her  happiest 
youth  ; but  now  subject  to  almost  of  horror,  associated  as  it 
was  with  the  fatal  secret  of  fier  birth.  She  knew  not  if  the 
proposal  were  one  of  pain  or  pleasure  ; but  the  conviction  that 
she  had  friends  so  anxious  to  restore  her  to  health,  so  eager  to 
welcome  Sir  Eonald’s  proposal,  could  not  but  weigh  powerfully 
with  a disposition  such  as  hers,  and  incline  her  to  whatever 
their  will  might  be.  That  there  were  times  when  she  felt  she 
was  leaving  England  to  die,  was  only  natural  to  her  state  of 
health ; but  even  in  this  thought  there  was  no  bitterness. 


WOMA^^’S  FRIENDSHIP. 


315 


Her  countenance  told  no  false  tale  ; her  mind,  yes,  and  her 
heart  were  both  at  rest.  If  it  were  her  Father’s  will  that  life, 
not  death,  should  be  her  portion,  she  felt  no  longer  as  she  had 
done,  that  earth  was  but  a bleak,  cold  desert.  No,  that  life 
could  never  be  to  her  what  it  had  been,  she  did  think,  but  yet 
it  might  be  one  of  doing,  if  not  of  receiving  good,  of  loving 
if  not  of  being  loved.  She  had  not  prayed  in  vain.  She 
could  think  of  Howard,  as  the  husband  of  Minie,  calmly, 
even  thankfully.  She  had  been  permitted  to  conquer  that 
passion  which  had  been  once  so  powerful ; she  felt,  indeed, 
that  her  heart  had  been  too  scorched  and  seared  for  the  flower 
of  a second  love  ever  to  find  resting-place.  She  was  at  peace, 
willing  to  live  or  die,  whichever  a wiser,  kinder  Power  willed  ; 
praying  but  that  the  mystery  of  her  birth  might  be  dispelled, 
that  that  birth  might  be  legitimate,  and  not  another  blessing 
could  she  find  need  to  seek.  And  smiles  were  on  her  lip  as 
she  lay  conversing  on  many  mutual  topics  of  interest  with 
the  Countess  St.  Maur,  sometimes  pausing  to  share  by  her 
caresses,  and  notice  the  unalloyed  enjoyment  of  the  lovely 
children,  who  were  alternately  lingering  by  their  mother,  or 
circled  around  the  young  lady,  w^ho,  as  Constance’s  instructress, 
had  made  her  way  to  the  hearts  of  all.  And  who  was  that 
tall,  fair,  gentle  girl,  who  seemed  ever  on  the  alert  to  add  to 
Miss  Leslie’s  comfort,  to  read  to  her,  talk  to  her,  embroider 
for  her,  bring  her  everything  she  needed,  and  linger  by  her, 
even  when  her  younger  and  merrier  companions  called  on  her 
to  join  their  dance  and  noisy  play  ; seeming,  too,  to  find 
such  real  pleasure  in  those  little  attentions,  that  Lady  St. 
Maur’s  warm  smile  of  approbation,  though  often  bestowed, 
was  no  longer  needed  to  incite  them  ? Could  this  be  the 
proud,  the  overbearing  Constance  St.  Maur,  who  had  once 
looked  on  Florence  with  such  scorn  and  dislike  because  she 
had  been  her  governess  ? It  was  even  so.  Example  even 
more  than  precept  had  wrought  this  change.  She  had  never 
been  a stupid  child,  and  since  her  residence  with  Lady  St. 
Maur,  circumstances  had  passed  before  her,  which,  although 
not  entirely  understood,  had  yet  brought  much  to  her  com- 
prehension, which  mere  precept  had  required  a longer  period 
to  effect. 

Lady  Helen  St.  Maur  had  hesitated  some  little  time  between 
accompanying  her  children  or  accepting  Lady  Edgemere’s 
eagerly-pressed  invitation  to  reside  with  them  tiU  the  Earl’s 


31G 


woman’s  rHIENDSHIP. 


return,  and  at  last  acceded  to  the  latter — her  advancing  age 
rendering  travelling  and  a voyage  less  agreeable  than  they  had 
been  a few  years  previously. 

I really  do  regret  you  could  not  succeed  in  persuading 
Emily  to  join  us,”  observed  Florence,  after  a pause,  and 
perceiving  the  Countess  had  laid  down  her  book ; she  must 
have  enjoyed  this.  Why  would  she  not  come  ? ” 

She  was  too  w^eak,  too  ill,  could  not  bear  the  water. 
Wondered  how  anybody  could  think  of  venturing,  and  felt  quite 
sure  that  she  could  not  endure  the  excitement,  and  fatigue, 
and  all  the  nameless  dangers  of  Italian  travelling.  Now,  do 
not  look  at  me  half-frightened  that  I am  going  to  turn 
serious,”  she  added,  laughing;  ‘'Emily  has  grieved  and 
disappointed  me  too  much  for  any  such  amusement.  Do  not, 
however,  waste  any  regrets  on  her;  her  mind  has  been  too 
long  warped  by  frivolity  and  vacuity  to  enjoy  such  pleasures 
as  these.  For  Mary  and  Alfred  I do  wish ; and  he  w^as 
excessively  provoking  for  being  so  much  engaged  just  at  the 
time  we  wanted  them.” 

“ But  they  are  so  happy  in  each  other  ; so  actively  em- 
ployed, it  would  have  been  but  exchange  of  pleasure  for  them. 
Now  Emily  really  might  have  derived  more  than  mere  tem- 
porary advantage.  The  change  must  have  done  her  good.” 

“ Only  while  it  lasted.  When  I first  returned  to  England, 
I did  indulge  the  hope  of  rousing  her  into  exertion.  I could 
not  believe  that  five  years  had  so  completely  ruined  all  which 
I thought  would  have  led  to  good.  It  makes  me  almost 
tremble  when  I think  how  she  wastes  existence.  At  first  she 
read  to  please  me,  but  to  what  purpose  ? Her  eye  glanced 
over  the  page,  but  her  mind  retained  nothing;  and  as  for 
bringing  any  sentiment  or  reflection  home,  I soon  found  it 
w^as  worse  than  idle  to  attempt  it.  No  ; I have  done  what  I 
can,  and  I despair  of  effecting  any  alteration  now.  She 
will  pass  through  life  like  too  many  others,  reading  novels  and 
working  Berlin  wool.” 

“ Unless  she  marries.  If  she  could  but  come  out  of  herself 
for  another — in  other  words,  really  love.” 

“ Love,  my  dear  Florence  ! In  your  meaning  of  the  word, 
Emily  could  never  love.  Had  she  been  united  earlier  to  some 
really  worthy  man,  her  character  might  have  altered ; now, 
even  marriage  would  fail.  She  would  never  come  out  of 
herself,  as  you  express  it ; and,  unless  she  did  so,  as  a married 


■woman’s  friendship. 


317 


woman  she  might  exist  as  she  does  now  ; but  live  happily  and 
beneficially  for  herself  and  others,  I very  much  doubt.” 

And  yet  she  seems  to  me  to  have  had  so  little  of  real 
misfortune  ; it  is  strange  that  her  life  should  be  so  cheerless.” 

''  Hardly  strange.  It  is  almost  a pity  she  has  never  had 
anything  like  trial  to  encounter.  Her  education  made  her 
artificial ; but  I did  once  think  she  possessed  the  germ  of 
higher  qualities  and  powers ; which,  had  they  been  called 
forth,  might  have  made  her  a very  different  being.  A single 
woman  must  often  make  objects  of  interest  to  prevent  the  too 
great  ascendency  of  self,  and  that  requires  intellect,  and  yet 
more  energy.  With  her  sist^^rs  she  has  little  in  common ; but 
her  brothers  are  both  superior  young  men,  and  their  families 
might  have  been  real  sources  of  interest  to  her.  It  is  not 
those  who  have  endured  misfortune,  and  endured  it  nobly, 
who  are  the  most  miserable  themselves,  or  by  whom  the  world 
is  most  darkly  judged ; it  is  those  who  vegetate  like  Emily, 
whose  greatest  solace  is  a novel,  whose  highest  ambition  is  to 
be  the  first  possessor  of  a new  pattern  for  embroidery ; who 
look  on  this  beautiful  earth  a^  dark  and  sinful,  and  disbelieve, 
as  romantic  folly,  all  the  tales  of  self-denial,  high  enterprise, 
and  moral  good,  which  they  hear.  Oh,  believe  me,  dearest 
Florence — to  you  I may  saj^  it,  for  you  must  feel  its  truth — 
that  real  trials,  nobly  borne,  are  no  subjects  for  pity ; it  is  for 
those  who  fritter  life  away,  as  if  it  had  no  end,  no  goal, 
nought  but  the  present  pleasure,  w^hich  flies  ere  it  is  clasped.” 

While  such  conversation  was  passing  between  the  Countess 
and  Florence — recorded  only  that  our  readers  may  not  accuse 
us  of  entirely  forgetting  Emily  Melford — another  of  more  real 
importance  to  our  heroine  was  engrossing  the  two  gentlemen 
already  noticed.  Sir  Eonald  Elliott  and  Lord  St.  Maur. 

‘‘You  do  wrong,  my  good  friend,  indeed  you  do,”  the  latter 
was  urging,  at  the  moment  when  we  take  it  up,  “to  encourage 
such  feelings,  after  all  I have  told  you ; they  can  bring  but 
misery.” 

“ Misery  ! to  love  such  a being,  St.  Maur  ? ” was  the  sailor’s 
impetuous  reply.  “ Granted,  that  I do  love  alone  as  yet,  that 
I am  resolved  she  shall  never  know,  never  dream  how  I have 
dared  to  love,  till  she  is  in  health  and  happiness  ; till  there  is 
a chance,  however  faint,  of  a return.  What  misery,  what 
harm  can  there  be  in  loving,  when  every  thought  devoted  to 
her  makes  me  a better  and  a nobler  man  ? I feel  a new  crea- 


818 


woman’s  friendship. 


ture  since  my  wild  dreams  of  woman’s  loveliness  and  gentleness 
and  magnanimity,  and  a host  of  household  virtues,  have  all 
found  embodiment  in  her.  Leave  me  to  my  heart’s  beautiful 
image,  my  good  lord ; to  love  such  a being  can  never  do  me 
harm.” 

''  All  very  fine  and  heroic,  Eonald,  no  doubt ; but  yet  I 
uphold  that  to  encourage  a feeling  which  I more  than  fear 
must  be  utterly  hopeless,  is  more  unwise  than  I gave  you 
credit  for  being.  Think  you  that  you  will  always  be  satisfied 
to  gaze  and  worship  as  you  do  now  ? Never  long  for  more, 
and  despair  that  more  is  not  given,  but  always  be  content  to 
worship,  though  to  your  divinity  herself  your  worship  is  un- 
known ? ” 

''  St.  Maur  ! I would  not  lose  my  present  emotions,  were 
they  to  be  paid  for  by  years  of  torment.  I am  no  romantic 
idiot,  though  you  look  very  much  as  if  you  thought  me  one  ; 
yet,  believe  me,  I would  not  have  that  glorious  creature 
suspect  that  I dare  love  her  now — no ! not  for  w^orlds.  I 
could  not  meet  her  look  of  sorrowing  regret,  for,  presumptuous 
as  I am,  she  would  give  me  nothing  more  severe.  I should 
deserve  to  lose  her,  did  I dare  bring  myself  forward  at  such  a 
moment,  wrapt  as  she  is  in  her  own  sorrows.” 

''You  are  a strange  fellow,  Eonald;  have  you  learnt  all  these 
highflown  notions  on  the  high  seas  ? If  so,  I will  send  my 
Cecil  there  directly  he  is  old  enough.  Now  don’t  look  re- 
proachfully! I would  not  jest  with  you  on  such  a topic  for  the 
world ; but  do  you  remember  all  ? I have  told  you  much 
which  would  withhold  many  another  man.” 

" What  have  you  told  me  ? — that  there  is  mystery  on  her 
birth;  and  it  may  be  that  which  the  world  brands  with  shame; 
and  you  believe  that  can  weigh  with  me,^  can  fling  a dark 
shadow  on  the  beautiful  mind  which  that  gentle  form  en- 
shrines ? — that  I can  think  one  moment  on  aught  of  mystery 
when  I look  on  her,  and  see  truth,  purity,  honour,  gleaming  up 
through  the  crystal  of  her  heart  as  clearly  as  I have  seen  the 
rich  coral  reef  and  golden  sands  shining  through  the  still  blue 
ocean,  though  they  lay  full  many  a fathom  deep  ? You  hint 
that  she  has  loved  unhappily,  and  therefore  I never  can  obtain 
the  heart’s  first  freshness,  which  my  love  deserves.  Let  her 
give  me  its  regard,  its  confidence  ; I ask  not  passion,  only 
affection.  I will  wait  years,  long  years,  I care  not  how  long, 
so  she  be  mine  at  last ! That  she  is  no  heiress  now,  has 


WOMANS  FRIENDSHIP. 


319 


resigned  all  but  a mere  pittance.  Aye,  it  was  that  very  deed 
which  first  awoke  me  into  consciousness,  telling  me  I reverenced 
— I worshipped  her  ! ” 

‘"All  very  likely,  and  most  eloquently  expressed,  friend 
Ronald ; but  it  says  nothing  as  to  the  wisdom  of  the  thing. 
Your  every  word  betrays  that  you  do  hope  ; and  when  I warn 
you  that  it  must  end  in  misery,  you  tell  me  it  cannot,  as  you 
are  content  to  worship  as  you  do  now  without  hope — to  love 
unsuspected  and  unknown ; something  rather  contradictory, 
my  good  friend.  However,  lovers’  feelings  are  always 
mysteries ; mine  were  once,  I suppose,  though  I found  to  my 
cost  that  loving  without  hope  was  not  a thing  to  thrive  on.  I 
wonder  if  those  madcaps  yonder  are  fighting  for  love.” 

Fighting  ! and  in  my  presence  ! ” exclaimed  Sir  Ronald, 
and  still  arm-in-arm  with  the  Earl,  he  hastened  to  that  part 
of  the  deck  which  we  have  mentioned  as  occupied  by  some 
young  midshipmen,  two  of  whom  from  a storm  of  words  had 
come  to  a yet  thicker  storm  of  blows. 

Sir  Ronald’s  imperative  voice  parted  them,  and  one,  the 
taller  and  evidently  the  more  incensed  of  the  two,  slunk  aside, 
as  conscious  of  the  weakness  of  his  own  cause ; while  the 
other,  a sturdy  handsome  boy,  much  his  junior,  stood  boldly 
forward,  crossing  his  arms  on  his  chest,  casting  a contemptuous 
glance  on  his  adversary,  and  meeting  his  commander’s  half 
reproving  look  with  a good-tempered  yet  respectful  smile.  He 
was  silent,  however,  until  Sir  Ronald,  finding  it  impossible  to 
obtain  a comprehensible  answer  from  the  elder,  who  stood 
twirling  his  hands  together  and  shifting  his  feet  in  every 
position  but  that  of  a man,  turned  to  him  and  demanded  the 
cause  of  such  unusual  disrespect. 

''Why,  if  you  please,  sir,  Mr.  Stanley  there,  chose  to 
insult  me,  as  not  fit  company  for  such  as  he,  being  you  see  a 
sprig  of  nobility,  and  I a poor  lieutenant’s  son ; and  I,  not 
quite  comprehending  such  distinctions,  gave  him  a good  bit  of 
my  mind,  which  you  see  he  did  not  like,  and  so  it  came  to 
blows.” 

" And  what  did  you  tell  him,  my  boy  ?”  asked  Lord  St. 
Maur,  laughing. 

" Only,  my  lord,  that  I saw  nothing  in  a nobleman  more 
than  in  a gentleman  except  according  to  his  conduct ; that  if 
relationship  to  nobility  make  the  man,  why  I might  claim  the 
like,  being  connected  witli  some  lord  or  other  of  whom  I 


320 


woman’s  friendship. 


know  not  even  the  name — so  much  good  his  being  a lord  has 
done  our  family  ; and  what’s  more,  my  grandfather  disclaimed 
the  relationship  years  ago,  because  of  something  or  other 
wrong,  which  caused  a change  of  name  ; and  I would  not  give 
up  mine  of  centuries  standing  for  his  new-fangled  one  and  the 
title  too.” 

Most  clearly,  comprehensively  explained,  young  man,”^ 
replied  the  Earl,  still  laughing.  One  thing  only  I can  com- 
prehend, that  you  are  a fine  high-spirited  fellow,  looking  on 
nobility  in  its  proper  light — man  making  nobility,  not  nobility 
the  man.  You  have  the  best  of  it  in  argument,  and  I rather 
think  the  force  of  it  in  blows.” 

The  lad  bowed  respectfully,  looking  very  much  as  if,  however 
low  his  opinion  of  nobility  in  general.  Lord  St.  Maur  was  an 
exception. 

Who  is  that  fine  youngster,  Elliott  ?”  inquired  the  Earl, 
as  he  resumed  his  walk  with  his  friend. 

The  grandson  of  as  noble  and  free-spirited  an  old  man  as 
ever  chanced  to  cross  my  path;  he  is  a clergyman  of  Yorkshire, 
whose  only  daughter  married  a poor  lieutenant,  a messmate  of 
mine,  now  disabled  and  retired,  and  living  on  half-pay  with 
his  wife  and  her  father.  He  wrote  to  me,  hearing  of  my 
return  and  promotion,  entreating  me  to  use  my  infiuence  in 
getting  a berth  for  his  son,  who  was  absolutely  pining  for  the 
sea.  To  his  father’s  great  delight,  I placed  him  under  my  own 
eye  ; he  is  a spirited  fellow  like  his  father.” 

But  his  name  ?” 

"^Philip  Neville  Hamilton.” 

Neville  !”  repeated  the  Earl. 

Yes ; after  his  grandfather,  who  proud  of  his  old  family 
name,  and  always  disappointed  that  he  had  not  a son  to  carry 
it  on,  gave  it  to  his  grandson,  who  you  have  seen  is  equally 
proud  of  it.  What  he  means  by  a lord  and  a new-fangled 
title,  I cannot  comprehend.” 

Do  you  think  he  does  himself  ?” 

I really  cannot  tell.  But  you  seem  agitated,  my  good 
friend  ! ^ What’s  in  a name  ?’  ” 

Maybe  more  in  this  instance  than  appears,  Ronald.  I am 
under  a vow  not  to  let  any  one  who  bears  the  name  of  Neville 
pass  unquestioned.” 

Lord  St.  Maur’s  attention,  once  aroused,  permitted  no  delay. 
Early  the  following  morning  Mr.  Hamilton  was  summoned  ta 


woman’s  friendship. 


321 


his  cabin,  and  a long  private  interview  followed.  Though  apt 
and  quick  enough,  the  boy  could  not  give  all  the  particulars 
which  were  asked.  He  only  knew  that  when  he  was  longing 
to  go  to  sea,  his  father  had  spoken  to  his  grandfather  ab^out 
seeking  the  interest  of  some  lord,  with  whom  they  were  con- 
nected, but  that  Mr.  Neville  had  solemnly  declared  he  would 
not ; he  would  rather  see  his  family  starve  than  have  anything 
to  do  with  one  whose  conduct  had  been  such  that  the  very 
name  had  been  dropped.  That  he  (Philip)  had  been  so  excited 
by  this  conversation,  he  had  appealed  to  his  mother  for  farther 
information,  but  she  had  told  him  little  more.  The  very  title 
he  did  not  know;  it  had  come  into  the  family  only  some 
twenty  or  thirty  years.  That  when  there  was  a chance  of  the 
succession,  some  near  relation  of  his  grandfather,  uncle  or 
cousin,  ashamed  of  the  stigma  attached  to  the  name  by  the 
conduct  of  his  son,  the  present  lord,  had  expended  an  immense 
sum  of  money  in  changing  it,  and  so  all  trace  of  the  family 
connection  was  lost.  So  much  his  mother  had  imparted,  with 
an  earnest  injunction  that  he  would  never  allude  to  this 
nobleman  again. 

Lord  St.  Maur  listened  as  one  in  a trance,  feeling  convinced 
that  he  had  either  actually  heard,  or  vividly  dreamed  a tale 
like  this  before  ; he  racked  his  memory  till  his  brain  ached,  to 
discover  where,  by  whom  related,  or  to  whom  applied.  Still, 
not  to  depend  alone  on  his  own  reminiscences,  he  wrote  to  Mr. 
Neville,  entreating  him  as  he  valued  the  chance  of  doing  good, 
and  restoring  peace,  to  write  to  him  all  particulars  of  this  little 
connection,  if,  as  from  Philip’s  words  he  suspected,  he  had 
once  borne  the  name  of  Neville,  who  and  what  he  had  been, 
and  what  were  his  present  name  and  title.  This  he  placed 
within  a letter  from  Philip,  who  told  of  his  own  accord  how 
deeply,  almost  painfully  Lord  St.  Maur  had  been  interested  in 
the  name,  and  then  enclosed  them  both  in  a packet  about  to 
be  despatched  to  Lord  Edgemere.  In  writing  that  nobleman’s 
name  a flash  of  light  darted  through  the  Earl’s  mind,  illumi- 
nating like  electricity  every  link  of  memory.  It  was  from  Lord 
Edgemere  he  had  heard  a similar  tale  on  the  night  of  his  return 
to  England ; and  of  whom  had  they  been  speaking  ? Lord 
St.  Maur  absolutely  started  from  his  chair  in  the  strong  agita- 
tion which  the  mental  answer  excited.  Could  it  be  ? Was  it 
possible  ? If  so,  with  what  infinite  mercy  had  Providence  in- 
terposed. It  required  an  effort,  even  to  his  strong  mind,  while 

y 


322 


woman’s  friendship. 


labouring  under  these  thoughts,  to  retain  his  usual  calm  ex- 
terior before  his  wife  and  Florence.  Yet  he  kept  his  secret 
even  from  the  countess,  fearing  to  excite  hopes  which,  after  all, 
might  not  be  realized.  In  his  own  mind,  however,  he  felt 
convinced  that,  as  very  often  happens  (though  the  sceptic 
world  denies  it,  as  visionary  folly),  the  simplest  chance,  in  this 
case  the  quarrel  of  two  boys,  would  unravel  the  painful  web  of 
mystery,  which  it  had  appeared  only  a miracle  could  solve. 

We  are  wrong  to  say  chance.  In  a government  of  love  there 
is  no  chance  ; a Father’s  hand  rules  our  destiny,  and  turns  even 
the  most  adverse  circumstances  (in  seeming)  to  the  furthering 
of  his  own  immortal  will. 


CHAPTER  LIIL 


EETURNING  HEALTH. — THE  CASKET  POUND. 


The  business  with  which  Sir  Ronald  Elliott  was  intrusted  by 
government  (for  he  combined  two  things  in  this  trip  of  plea- 
sure) led  him  to  Constantinople ; and  as  he  could  not  persuade 
his  guests  that  Turkey  would  be  infinitely  more  interesting 
than  Italy,  for  a brief  residence,  he  permitted  them,  after  a 
month’s  delicious  cruise,  to  embark  at  the  nearest  port  to 
Florence,  to  which  fair  city  they  were  bound,  for  thither, 
though  she  said  but  little,  Florence’s  wishes  turned. 

Strength,  as  Sir  Charles  Brashleigh  predicted,  had  partially 
returned  ; and  the  great  benefit  which  she  had  derived  from 
the  sea  breezes,  and  continually  changing  scene,  argued  well 
for  the  hopes  of  her  friends.  Lady  St.  Maur,  indeed,  still  in 
secret  trembled ; for  to  her  affection  it  seemed  that  the  re- 
turning elasticity  was  merely  temporary,  and  that  Florence 
would  at  length  sink,  not  from  the  terrible  trials  she  had 
undergone,  but  from  that  dark  and  fatal  secret,  which,  with 
all  a woman’s  sympathy,  she  felt  was  crushing  life  beneath  its 
weight.  Lord  St.  Maur  could  not  feel  this,  because  hope  was 
so  strongly  at  work  within  him  ; young  Elliott  so  entirely 
forgot  it,  except  as  rendering  her  in  his  eyes  a being  still  more 
demanding  love  and  cherishing,  that  he  could  not  believe  that 
it  could  weigh  so  heavily  on  her.  Still,  by  neither  word  nor 
sign  did  he  betray  the  devoted  love  which  in  reality  he  felt ; 
though  to  a mind  less  preoccupied,  his  almost  reverential 
manner  of  addressing  her,  of  superintending  all  the  little 
kindnesses  which  could  tend  to  her  comfort,  might  have  be- 
trayed something  deeper  than  mere  regard. 

The  little  party  broke  up  with  regret,  only  softened  by  the 
idea  of  their  very  shortly  meeting  again — on  Captain  Elliott’a 
Y 2 


324 


woman’s  friendship. 


return  from  the  Sublime  Porte,  when  it  would  be  decided 
whether  they  were  to  accompany  him  again  to  the  South  of 
France,  or  return  to  England  overland.  However  he  might 
believe  that  to  worship  as  an  unknown  devotee  would  content 
him.  Sir  Konald  found  that  this  worship,  ajpart  from  its  idol, 
was  something  very  different  to  paying  it  in  her  presence. 
Yet  he  persevered  in  his  resolution,  that  she  should  never  know 
how  she  was  beloved,  till  she  was  happy  enough  to  be  awake 
to  the  consciousness  that  she  had  yet  the  power  of  charming 
one  in  unselfish  reverence  to  her  side.  She  seemed  to  him  as 
one  too  pure,  too  unearthly  in  her  high  and  beautiful  excel- 
lence, to  be  approached  with  aught  of  worldly  passion,  and  so, 
though  his  limbs  trembled  with  suppressed  emotion,  as  he 
came  to  bid  her  farewell,  every  feeling  was  effectually  concealed. 

And  at  last  Florence  was  in  Italy  ! Was  it  the  spirit  of  her 
own  ill-fated  mother  at  work,  which  caused  her  whole  being  to 
thrill  with  such  a mingled  sense  of  pain  and  pleasure  that  her 
feeble  frame  could  scarcely  sustain  it,  as  she  gazed  on  those 
scenes  of  nature,  those  exquisite  models  of  art,  which  had 
been  so  long  her  day  dream  ? Who  might  answer?  There 
are  mysteries  in  the  human  heart,  depths  and  capabilities  of 
suffering  and  of  enjoyment,  which  even  their  possessor  can 
scarcely  define,  and  how,  then,  may  they  be  described  to 
others  ? The  Countess  often  wondered  if  the  wish  to  visit  the 
scene  of  her  mother  s last  sufferings  ever  crossed  her  mind, 
but  she  never  alluded  to  it,  nor  did  Florence. 

Lord  St.  Maur  had  departed  on  a private  expedition,  a 
week  or  ten  days  after  their  arrival  at  Florence,  and  on  his 
return  he  found  several  despatches  awaiting  him  from  England. 
It  was  easy  for  his  wife  to  read  in  his  features  that  his  search 
had  not  been  in  vain,  and  that  Elford  s tale  really  had 
foundation ; but  the  peculiar  expression  which  attended  the 
perusal  of  an  enclosure  from  Lord  Edgemere,  was  even  to  her 
penetration  incomprehensible.  It  was  speedily  explained. 

Florence,  I have  news  for  you.  Are  you  strong  enough  to 
hear  them  ?”  inquired  Lady  St.  Maur,  entering  her  friend  s 
boudoir  the  following  morning,  and  finding  her  reclining  on  a 
sofa,  resting  from  the  fatigue  of  inditing  a long  letter  to 
Millie. 

News  requiring  strength  to  hear,  dearest  Ida  ! ” Lady 
St.  Maur  had  long  since  insisted  that  Florence  should  drop 
her  title.  What  can  you  mean  ? I can  imagine  no  news  of 


woman’s  friendship. 


225 


such  importance,  unless,”  she  started  np,  alarmed,  ‘^unless 
you  have  heard  more  of  Minie  than  I have.  What  of  her?” 

‘'Nothing  of  her,  you  apprehensive  being;  besides,  if  it 
were,  my  news  are  of  joy,  not  of  sorrow  !” 

“Joy  ! — and  for  me  !” 

“ Why,  are  there  no  news  which  can  be  fraught  with  joy  for 
you,  Florence  ? Think,  is  there  nothing — nothing  in  the 
Avhole  range  of  thought  and  wish,  which  you  have  lingered  on, 
which,  if  discovered,  would  bring  joy?” 

“ Nothing,  but  that  which  is  impossible,”  replied  Florence, 
despondingly. 

“ Do  not  say  so,  dearest ; it  is  unlike  your  trusting  faith,  to 
imagine  there  is  any  one  thing  impossible  to  Him  who  watches 
over  us,  till  all  things  meet  together  for  our  good.  Have  you 
never  thought,  never  believed,  that  your  own  poor  mother  had 
grounds  for  her  assertion  that  her  child’s  birth  was  as  legal  as 
her  own  marriage  ?”  ^ 

“Yes,  that  she  had  gTounds,  perhaps  proofs  to  satisfy 
herself — ^but  not  the  world,  for  even  she  might  have  been 
deceived.” 

“ Do  you  remember  in  Mrs.  Leslie’s  MS.  that  she  alludes  to 
a search  for  papers,  which  she  imagined  her  poor  friend  had 
really  obtained,  but  that  none  were  found  ?” 

“ Perfectly ; but  I believe,  with  my  dear  father,  that  it  was 
merely  the  excitement  of  fever  which  made  her  thus  speak — 
not  actual  possession.” 

“And  suppose  there  really  had  been  such  papers,  and  by  a 
most  providential  concatenation  of  circumstances  they  had 
been  traced  and  found,  and  all  mystery  respecting  your  birth 
dispelled.  Florence,  dearest,  I must  be  silent,  if  you  give  way 
to  agitation  such  as  this.” 

“ No  ! no  ! no  !”  gasped  poor  Florence,  struggling  with  the 
excitement  which  nearly  overpowered  her,  “tell  me  all  that 
you  have  learned.  I am  strong  enough  to  bear  it.  Can  it  be 
that,  after  such  a lapse  of  years,  they  can  be  discovered ; that 
nil  may  yet  be  revealed  ?” 

“1  bade  you  hope,  my  Florence,  when  I had  little  hope 
myself,”  replied  Lady  St.  Maur  ; “ little  to  build  on,  but  the 
words  of  my  husband,  narrating  a curious  tale  which  had  met 
his  ears  in  Italy,  disregarded  at  the  time,  but  recalled  by  the 
perusal  of  Mrs.  Leslie’s  MS.”  She  here  related  briefly  that 
with  which  our  readers  are  already  acquainted,  and  continued. 


326 


woman’s  friendship. 


Lord  St.  Maur  did  all  he  could  to  obtain  farther  information, 
of  these  young  men.  Elford  he  did  not  know  personally ; 
George  Lacy,  Elford’s  particular  friend,  was  seized  with  a 
mania  to  travel  all  over  the  world  : for  my  husband  could  not 
get  a letter  to  reach  him  until,  I think,  full  eight  months  after 
his  first  attempt.  Lacy’s  information  only  consisted  in  stating, 
that  Elford  was  with  his  regiment  in  India,  and  not  expected 
to  return  for  four  or  five  years.  As  this  was  the  case,  my 
husband  felt  there  was  but  little  chance  of  his  obtaining  the 
papers,  except  by  going  to  Italy  himself.  It  was  just  about 
the  time  of  Minie’s  marriage,  and  then  there  was  little 
appearance  of  his  accomplishing  it.  When,  however,  you 
became  ill,  and  Sir  Charles  mentioned  Italy  and  a voyage  as 
likely  to  restore  you,  he  was  quite  as  anxious  to  try  it  as 
Ronald  himself,  still  hoping — a hope,  I candidly  own,  I could 
not  share — that  the  papers  did  exist,  and  would  be  found. 
You  sacrificed  your  own  desire,  to  keep  yOur  fatal  secret  hid 
from  all,  in  my  favour,  dearest  Florence,  that  I might  not  be 
burdened  with  a secret  which  I might  not  impart  to  my 
husband ; and  to  this  sacrifice  of  self  you  owe  a discovery, 
which,  I trust,  you  will  eventually  own  is  fraught  with  joy. 
To  tell  youi  all  in  a few  words — the  Earl’s  secret  expedition 
was  to  the  source  of  the  Arno,  and  there,  true  both  to  Mrs. 
lieslie’s  manuscript  and  Elford’s  narrative,  he  found  the  village 
curd,  the  superstitious  host,  and  the  long-desired  casket.  So 
easily  had  every  difficulty  at  length  been  overcome,  that  my 
husband  had  scarcely  courage  to  examine  the  papers,  fearing, 
now  he  really  had  them,  that  they  were  not  those  he  sought.” 

“ But  they  were — ^they  were  !”  burst  passionately  from  the 
parched  lips  of  Florence. 

‘‘  Dearest,  they  were  even  those  very  papers  to  which  your 
unhappy  mother’s  dying  words  alluded.  It  is  clear  that 
Madeleine,  ill  and  suffering  as  she  was,  must  have  sought  for 
and  found  the  abbd  who  had  united  them,  obtained  from  him 
the  certificate  of  their  marriage,  and  also  a written  document, 
proving,  on  oath,  not  only  the  truth  and  sanctity  of  his  cloth, 
which  in  the  wildness  of  her  agony  she  appears  to  have 
doubted ; but  that  a notorious  fact  concerning  this  Charles 
Neville  having  met  his  ear,  he  had  positively  refused  to  marry 
them,  unless  Mr.  Neville  would  take  the  most  solemn  oath, 
and  bring  papers  to  testify,  that  he  was  uniting  himself  to 
Madeleine  Montoni  under  his  real  name.  This  was  done ; 


woman’s  friendship. 


327 


papers  signed  to  that  effect  were  given  to  the  reverend  priest’s 
care,  who,  in  his  simplicity,  inferred  the  repentance  of  the 
bridegroom,  and  his  pure  love  for  his  beautiful  bride,  by  the 
little  resistance  he  made  to  this  proposal.  Alas  ! ere  the  year 
was  passed  the  cause  for  this  seeming  submission  was  explained. 
jMeville  wrote  to  the  old  man,  tauntingly  and  triumphantly, 
alluding  to  the  compact  he  had  made,  but  that  it  was  idle  and 
useless  all ; did  he  believe  him  such  a dolt  as  to  forge  chains 
for  himself  which  he  could  not  break  at  his  will  ? At  the  very 
time  the  abbd  had  united  him  as  Charles  Neville  to  the 
deceived  Madeleine,  he  said  his  father  was  using  every  effort 
and  expending  large  sums  of  money  in  changing  the  name, 
and  that  he  had  succeeded.  Not  alone  was  the  name  of 
Neville  banished  for  ever,  but  a title  was  in  prospect,  and 
when  obtained,  what  search,  what  claim  could  ever  identify 
him  as  the  husband  of  Madeleine,  the  father  of  her  child  ?” 

‘‘But  he  acknowledged  he  knew  she  was  his  wife!”  ex- 
claimed Florence,  strongly  agitated.  ‘‘Alas,  alas,  my  mother ! 
Yet  this  satisfaction  was  at  least  her  own.” 

“ It  was.  Her  search  for  the  Abb6  Gramont  was  at  least 
not  entirely  in  vain.  Convinced  that  she  possessed  these 
important  papers,  and  unconscious  that  they  had  been  stolen, 
she  died,  in  all  probability  so  far  happy,  that  she  believed  the 
friend  whom  Providence  had  brought  to  adopt  her  child, 
would  have  proofs  of  the  legality  of  its  birth.” 

“And  you  have  the  papers  1 You  really  have  them  1” 

“ Yes,  dearest,  close  at  hand.  You  can  examine  them  when 
you  will.” 

“ And  you  and  Lord  St.  Maur  are  convinced  by  them  that 
there  is  no  stain  upon  my  birth  ? I may,  indeed,  go  forth 
again  like  others  ? His  name  was  Neville  when  he  married?  ” 

To  us  there  is  not  the  smallest  doubt  remaining  ; there  can 
be  none ! Other  and  (though  trifling)  most  convincing  cir- 
cumstances confirm  this. 

^ Florence  sunk  back,  with  such  a fervent  burst  of  thanks- 
giving, that  the  Countess  could  not  hear  it  unmoved.  Every 
feature  became  irradiated  ; her  clasped  hands,  her  parted  lip, 
her  swimming  eye,  betrayed  the  full  tide  of  joyous  gratitude 
which  was  swelling  in  her  heart,  though,  after  the  first  ex- 
clamation, words  she  had  none. 

“ You  have  more  to  tell  me,”  she  said,  at  length,  when  her 
agitation  subsided  sufficiently  to  perceive  that  Lady  St.  Maur’s 


328 


woman's  friendship. 


countenance  was  still  somewhat  anxious.  What  can  it  he, 
that  it  will  not  permit  you  to  sympathise  in  the  blessedness  of 
this  moment,  as  you  did  in  former  sorrow  ? Ida,  dearest  Ida, 
do  you  fear  that  because  it  has  been  revealed  only  now,  that  I 
cannot  be  as  grateful  as  I ought  ? Do  you  wish  it  had  come 
earlier  ? Oh  I wish  it  not ; it  must  be  better  so,  or  it  would 
not  have  been.'^ 

And  can  you,  in  truth,  feel  this,  my  Florence  ? Can  you 
still  realize  a Hand  of  Love  in  the  eventful  tenor  of  your  life  ? 
Can  you  still  believe  that  your  adopted  mother's  prayer  was 
granted,  and  that  the  misery  you  have  endured  was  its  reply  ? 
Florence,  I ask  not  idly.  Answer  me  only  as  you  feel." 

And  as  I feel,  I answer,  my  kind  friend.  Had  not  the 
fiery  ordeal,  through  which  it  has  pleased  a God  of  Love  to 
bring  me,  been  for  good,  it  would  have  been  averted.  Had  it 
been  for  our  happiness,  I mean  for  Frank's  and  mine,  that  we 
should  have  become  one,  this  discovery  would  not  have  been 
so  long  delayed.  No  ! it  is  better  thus.  God  in  mercy  heard 
my  prayer.  I can  look  upon  my  sister’s  husband  only  as  my 
brother  now  ; can  feel  that  with  her  he  must  be  happier  than 
he  would  have  been  with  me,  or  he  could  not  so  easily  have 
loved  again.  I do  not  say  I could  always  realize  this,  but  that 
I can  now^  freely  and  thankfully.  Love  is  past  and  gone- — I 
will  not  say  as  if  it  had  never  been,  because  my  heart  has  lost 
its  freshness,  but  the  object  of  its  illusion  is  as  completely 
banished  as  if  he  were  one  amongst  the  dead — perhaps  still 
more  so,  for  it  would  be  no  sin  to  retain  his  image  then  as  it 
is  now.  Did  I not  give  him  to  another  ? did  I not  level  the 
barriers  between  him  and  his  happiness  ? I say  it  not  in 
ostentation,  but  only  to  convince  you  that  if  I could  do  this, 
if  I could  thus  resign  him,  I should  feel  it  sin  to  cease  to 
struggle  till  I had  conquered  all  of  love." 

And  you  have  done  this  ?" 

Yes  ! If  Frank  were  free  to-morrow,  and  could  feel  again 
that  which  he  once  professed  for  me — make  me  anew  an  offer, 
I would  not  be  his  wife  ; perhaps  the  weaning  myself  from  old 
thoughts,  old  feelings,  was  too  deep  suffering  to  permit  the 
idea  of  their  return,  without  the  fervent  cry  for  help,  that  such 
might  never  be — I could  not  bear  it.” 

‘'And  no  regret,  then,  mingles  with  this  hour  ? Florence, 
my  noble  Florence,  can  human  nature  attain  faith  like  this  ?" 

"Yes,  yes!  believe  it,  dearest  Ida.  God  tries  us  not  beyond 


woman’s  friendship. 


32^' 

our  strength,  beyond  that  which  He  will  give  ns  help  to  bear. 
I know  that  the  wherefore  He  has  tried  me  will  be  revealed  in 
heaven  ; on  earth  I ask  it  not,  hope  it  not.  It  is  enough  that 
His  love  permits  my  feeling  that  He  has  willed  it,  therefore 
it  is  good.” 

And  if  the  ivJierefore  should  be  indeed  revealed  to  us  on 
earth,  Florence — my  own  Florence — think  you  you  could  bear 
to  know  the  truth  ?” 

'^Bear  it?”  exclaimed  Florence,  once  more  springing  up,  and 
laying  both  hands  on  her  friend’s  arm.  What  can  you 
mean  ? What  have  I more  to  bear  T 

Little  of  suffering,  now,  my  Florence,  but  much  to  call 
for  thanksgiving.  Tell  me,  are  you  satisfied  that  your  poor 
mother’s  death  was  happier  than  you  thought ; that  no  spot 
of  shame  can  attach  itself  to  you  ?” 

''  What  more  is  needed  ? Is  not  that  in  itself  sufficient 
mercy  ?”  replied  Florence. 

‘'You  would  not,  then,  proclaim  yourself  his  child,  did  you 
know  that  your  father  lived  ?” 

“ No,  no  ! Oh ! call  him  not  my  father ; spare  me  that 
further  agony,”  entreated  Florence,  pain  suddenly  contracting 
every  feature  which  had  beamed  with  such  holy,  such  beautiful 
submission.  “What  can  he  be  to  me,  or  I to  him,  save  as 
mutual  objects  of  dread?  And  even  if  he  owned  me,  my  legal 
right  might  perhaps  interpose  between  him  and  other  offspring, 
believed  legal  now.  No,  no,  let  me  be  Florence  Leslie  still ! 
No  other  name  could  be  to  me  like  that ; no  father  like  him 
who  took  me  to  his  hearth  and  heart,  when  I knew  no  other, 
and  no  other  would  know  me.  It  is  enough  we  know  the 
truth,  why  should  the  world  know  more  ?” 

“ Be  calm,  be  comforted,  then,  my  Florence ; it  shall  be  as 
you  will,”  replied  the  Countess,  fondly.  “ Nay,  if  it  be  such 
suffering,  his  very  name  you  need  not  know.” 

“ His  name  1”  repeated  Florence,  wildly.  “ Gracious 
heavens  ! is  that,  too,  brought  to  light  ? And  was  it  this  you 
feared  to  tell  me  ! Feared  ! Yet  why  ? What  can  it  be  to 
me  ?” 

“Nothing  now  to  fear,  my  Florence.  What  might  have 
been,  had  those  papers  been  a little  longer  concealed,  or  had 
you  failed  in  that  dread  moment  of  trial,  I shudder  to  think 
on.  Is  it  possible  you  do  not  understand  me  ?”  she  added,  as 
Florence’s  large  eyes  moved  not  from  her  face,  yet  evinced  no 
emotion  but  inquiry. 


330 


woman’s  feiendship. 


‘^IJDderstand  you?  Yes — that  Charles  Neville  is  dis- 
covered ; but  you  have  not  said  in  whom  ?’’ 

Lady  St.  Maur  did  not  reply  in  words,  but  she  placed  an 
open  letter  in  her  hand.  Florence  glanced  rapidly  over  it. 
Her  cheek  and  lips  gradually  became  blanched  to  the  colour 
of  her  robe  as  she  proceeded.  Her  breath  became  impeded, 
till  at  length  she  felt  as  if  every  pulse  suddenly  stood  still. 
Her  brow  contracted,  her  eyes  distended,  and  though  the  paper 
dropped  from  her  hands,  they  remained  convulsively  clenched, 
as  if  they  held  it  still. 

Florence  !”  exclaimed  Lady  St.  Maur,  throwing  her  arms 
around  her,  you  are  saved  this  intolerable  misery.  Dearest, 
wdll  you  not  thank  God  ?” 

Florence  heard,  and  understood  her.  A grasp  of  ice  seemed 
loosed  from  her  heart  and  brain,  and,  throwing  herself 
passionately  on  the  Countess’s  neck,  sense,  and  with  it  thank- 
fulness, too  deep,  too  intense  for  words,  returned,  in  a con- 
vulsive burst  of  tears. 


CHAPTER  LIV, 


REMORSE. 


Lord  St.  Maur  and  his  family  remained  in  Italy  nearly  a 
twelvemonth ; and  though  Sir  Ronald  Elliott  could  not  pre- 
vail on  them  to  return  in  his  frigate  to  England,  he  did  succeed 
in  persuading  them,  before  he  left  the  southern  shores,  to  take 
a cruise  in  the  Adriatic,  touching  at  all  the  far-famed  Grecian 
isles.  The  excursion  happily  confirmed  the  hoped-for  improve- 
ment in  the  health  and  spirits  of  Florence.  The  Captain  of 
course  declared  it  was  his  much-loved  ocean  which  had  accom- 
plished this  good^  although  Lord  St.  Maur  compelled  him  to 
acknowledge  that  she  was  materially  better  before  the  last 
cruise,  and  consequently  that  Italy  had  been  as  beneficial  as 
the  sea. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  the  Florence  Leslie  who  returned  to 
England  after  an  eighteen  months’  absence  was  very  different 
from  the  Florence  Leslie  who  had  left  it.  To  the  unspeakable 
happiness  of  Minie  and  Frank,  there  was  no  farther  appearance 
of  gradual  decay,  and  whatever  might  have  been  the  sorrow 
which  they  had  feared  was  consuming  her,  its  every  trace  had 
passed  away.  The  quiet  happiness,  the  unrufiled  cheerfulness 
of  former  days  had  returned.  She  no  longer  shrunk,  as  Minie 
had  feared  she  would,  from  witnessing  the  happiness  she  had 
done  so  much  to  heighten,  but  seemed  to  delight  now  in  the 
society  of  those  she  had  served  ; needing  no  other  proof  of 
gratitude  than  the  continuance  of  their  nurture,  confidence, 
and  love,  and  their  unwavering  respect  and  affection  towards 
herself.  She  promised  them,  as  she  could  not  quite  grant 
their  reiterated  request  to  live  with  them  entirely,  that  her 
home  should  be  alternately  with  them  and  the  Countess  St. 
Maur.  Minie  and  Frank  assured  her  they  wanted  but  this 
to  complete  their  happiness. 


332 


WOMAN  S rRIENBSHIP. 


‘'You  have  not  seen  Emily,  then,  since  her  engagement  with 
Louis  Camden  V inquired  Lady  Mary  Melford  of  the  Countess 
St.  Maur,  as  they  sat  together  one  morning,  some  months  after 
the  latter’s  return  to  England.  Lord  Melford’s  family  were 
still  in  Scotland,  where  they  had  been  staying  six  or  seven 
weeks. 

“ No,  we  missed  each  other  completely,  and  I knew  nothing 
of  this  engagement  till  quite  by  chance  : Emily  did  not  even 
write  to  tell  me  of  it.  Is  it  the  same  Camden  she  met  at  our 
liouse  some  two  or  three  years  ago,  when  we  were  so  anxious  to 
discover  the  truth  about  Florence?” 

“ The  very  same  : you  know  he  became  intimate  with  our 
families  from  that  circumstance.  Alfred  rather  liked  him,  but 
never  dreamt  of  his  being  Emily’s  choice.” 

“Nor  should  I : some  years  ago  he  would  have  been  the 
least  likely  person  to  attract  her.  Indeed,  when  we  left  Eng- 
land, I thought  she  would  never  marry ; does  she  love  him  ?” 

Lady  Mary  laughed.  “How  can  you  ask  such  a simple 
question,  Ida  ? Did  I not  tell  you  some  years  ago,  that  love 
v;as  out  of  fashion,  though  you  and  I were  silly  enough  to 
fall  into  its  trammels  ? Emily  is  now  urged  by  the  amiable 
desire  of  proving  that  she  has  a will  of  her  own  in  opposition 
to  that  of  her  parents,  who  did  not  approve  of  the  match.” 

“Why  not?  he  is  of  good  family,  is  he  not?  and  I hear 
nothing  alleged  against  him  in  the  way  of  character.” 

“ Character  1 he  has  none  to  allege  anything  against.  They 
will  be  happy  after  their  own  fashion,  I dare  say.  Nothing  in 
common,  certainly,  except  indolence,  which  delightful  quality 
will  save  them  from  the  trouble  of  quarrelling.  Louis  will 
lounge  away  his  mornings  at  the  Horse  Guards,  Tattersall’s, 
etc.,  as  he  does  now.  Emily  will  furnish  her  drawing-room  and 
boudoir  with  the  most  elegant  Berlin  work,  which  will  occupy 
her  some  delightful  years;  perhaps  for  a change,  she  may 
indite  a fashionable  novel,  if  writing  be  not  too  much  trouble. 
She  has  read  so  many,  that  she  might  concoct  one  quite  origi- 
nal in  appearance,  however  borrowed  in  reality.  Now,  have  I 
not  sketched  you  a picture  of  true  felicity,  Ida?  Do  not 
laugh,  it  is  true  to  life.” 

“ Indeed,  it  is  much  too  sad  for  laughter,  but  your  comic 
look  provoked  it.  How  can  you  talk  so  coolly  of  two  persons 
entering  into  the  solemn  ceremony  of  marriage,  taking  a sacred 
oath  to  be  as  one,  when  they  have  no  more  idea  of  being  so 


woman’s  friendship. 


33a 


than  they  were  before  they  married ; going  their  own  ways, 
seeking  their  own  pleasures ; in  a word,  living  but  for  them- 
selves, when  they  have  sworn  so  to  love  one  another,  that  self 
must  be  annihilated.  It  is  dreadful !” 

‘'My  dear  Ida,  hundreds  do  the  same ; for  ten  that  marry 
for  love  in  this  worldly  age,  I will  find  you  fifty  that  do  so 
without  an  atom  of  such  romance.” 

“ Perhaps  so  : but  numbers,  in  my  opinion,  do  not  constitute 
either  strength  or  wisdom.  Better  Emily  should  vegetate 
through  life,  as  she  does  now,  than  marry  with  such  feelings.” 

“ Indeed,  I do  not  think  so.  Matrimony  may  bring  some 
cares  and  annoyances  with  it,  and  that  will  do  her  good.  Their 
novelty  will  make  them  pleasures.” 

“A  novel  kind,  undoubtedly ; but  how  do  you  know  that 
she  really  does  not  love  him  as  much  at  least  as  she  can  love?” 

“ Only  by  her  telling  me  so  herself.  You  may  start  and 
look  disbelieving ; but  it  is  perfectly  true,  she  condemns  all 
love  as  the  height  of  folly.” 

“ Then  why  marry  at  all  ? particularly  as,  by  your  account, 
she  is  to  work  worsted  and  read  novels  just  the  same  after 
marriage  as  before,  so  it  cannot  be  for  change  of  employment.” 

“ Oh  ! but  there  is  more  eclat  in  what  the  Honourable  Mrs, 
Camden  does,  than  in  the  sayings  and  doings  of  Emily  Melford. 
She  says  herself  that  she  marries  for  a change,  to  prove  to  her 
father  that  she  likes  her  own  will  better  than  his,  and  to  take 
precedence  of  her  sister  at  all  the  dinners  and  balls  where  they 
may  chance  to  meet.” 

“Mary,  you  are  uncharitable  !” 

“On  my  honour,  I repeat  but  her  own  words.  Imagine, 
should  she  have  children,  in  what  a capital  school  they  will  be 
trained.” 

“ Children ! Emily  a mother,  and  of  girls  ? unless  she 
change  very  materially,  of  which  I fear  there  is  little  chance. 
Heaven  avert  such  a misfortune  both  to  herself  and  them.” 

“Amen ; if  you  speak  so  seriously,  Ida,  I must  be  serious 
too.  You  say -'of  girls;’  do  you  think  a mother’s  influence 
is  less  felt  with  boys  ?” 

“ Only  so  far  that  they  are  removed  sooner  from  her  care  ; 
an  indolent  mother  will  dispatch  her  boj^s  to  school,  almost 
before  she  has  power  to  work  them  good  or  evil.  Her  girls 
remain  with  her,  under  a governess  perhaps,  but  that  will 
hardly  save  them  from  the  effects  of  example ; and  believe 


334 


woman’s  friendship. 


me,  a mother  influences  the  tender  years  of  her  children  yet 
more  by  example  than  by  precept.  In  your  case,  dear  Mary, 
I feel  assured  that  your  influence  will  follow  your  boy  through 
life,  babe  as  he  is  now,  and  little  as  you  think  you  can  do  for 
him.  You  see  I have  read  the  thoughts  which  dictated  your 
question,  and  I answer  them  in  the  words  of  Madame  Campan 
— ' Mothers  more  than  schools  are  wanted  to  give  us  a nobler 
race  of  men.’  ” 

‘"I  ask  but  to  make  my  boy  like  his  father/’  was  the  instant 
reply. 

Lady  St.  Maur  smiled.  ‘^Conjugal  love  is  not  out  of 
fashion,  then,  Mary,  though  every  other  is.” 

''  I told  you  we  were  exceptions,  Ida.” 

I am  glad  of  it,  Mary ; but  for  your  boy,  if  you  do  not 
wish  him  better  than  his  father,  you  can  make  him  happier, 
for  Alfred  had  little  of  maternal  influence  to  make  him  what 
he  is.” 

'^Parlez  dJ  un  due  et  V on  wit  ses  oreilles''  said  Lady  Mary, 
laughing  mischievously,  as  her  husband  and  Lord  St.  Maur 
entered  at  that  moment. 

Which  of  us  must  look  for  his  oreilles,  Lady  Mary?” 
demanded  the  Earl,  in  the  same  tone. 

Oh,  not  you;  though  Ida  was  speaking,  do  not  flatter 
yourself  it  was  about  you.  Alfred,  as  you  were  the  dne,  have 
you  no  curiosity?” 

‘^None  at  this  moment.  I have  just  learned  tidings  which 
have  startled  me.  Lord  Glenvylle  has  been  thrown  out  of  his 
carriage,  and  so  seriously  injured  that  there  is  little  hope  of 
his  recovery.” 

A general  start  and  exclamation  followed  his  words. 

'^How  unfortunate,”  remarked  Lady  Mary;  ^^Minie  has 
scarcely  recovered  the  severe  illness  which  followed  her  con- 
finement, and  I am  sure  is  not  well  enough  for  Frank  to  leave 
her ; she  has  been  so  attentive  and  kind  to  that  strange  man, 
and  he  has  grown  so  fond  of  her,  that  the  news  of  his  danger 
will,  I am  sure,  do  her  harm.” 

‘^The  more  so,  as  Lord  Glenvylle  had  just  left  Woodlands 
in  perfect  health,”  rejoined  the  Earl. 

''  Woodlands  ! had  he  been  there  ?” 

''Yes,  absolutely  to  see  his  grandson,  to  whom  you  know  he 
insisted  on  giving  the  name  of  Leslie.  His  eccentricity 
showed  itself  even  then.  I w’onder  he  left  his  retirement  at 
all.” 


woman’s  miENDSHIP. 


335 


Florence,  how  is  he  with  her  asked  Melford ; ^^has 
she  seen  much  of  him 

Only  since  his  visit  to  Woodlands.  Cordial  to  women, 
yon  know  he  never  is,  and  Florence  rather  shrinks  from  than 
invites  his  notice.  He  would,  however,  I have  heard,  dis- 
tinguish her,  as  he  has  never  forgotten  what  he  terms  her 
courage  in  seeking  him,  and  her  generosity  towards  his  son.” 

‘‘  Ida,  how  strangely  silent  you  have  become ; what  are  you 
thinking  about?”  inquired  Lady  Mary;  but  the  Countess — a 
very  unusual  circumstance  with  her — could  not  at  that  moment 
^reveal  her  thoughts,  and  evaded  the  question. 

Melford’s  intelligence  was  correct.  When  nearing  the  metro- 
polis, Lord  Glenvylle’s  horses  had  taken  fright,  and,  overturning 
the  carriage,  their  master  was  so  seriously  hurt  as  to  be  con- 
veyed insensible  to  his  own  house.  Medical  men  had  been 
instantly  summoned,  and  pronounced  him  injured  internally, 
and  so  severely  as  to  baffle  their  skill.  He  might  linger,  nay, 
might  recover ; but  it  was  doubtful,  they  would  not  advise 
any  delay  in  sending  for  his  family. 

As  Lady  Mary  had  anticipated,  the  news  caused  Frank  the 
greatest  uneasiness.  Delicate  as  she  was,  Minie  could  not 
accompany  him,  and  yet  she  was  most  urgent  to  do  so, 
declaring  that  his  father  ought  not  to  be  left  alone,  and  so 
entirely  dependent  on  his  domestics.  Frank  felt  the  truth  of 
her  words ; but  he  could  not  consent,  her  health  was  much 
too  precious  to  be  risked,  and  he  would  have  departed  alone, 
had  not  Florence  conjured  him  with  earnestness  to  permit  her 
supplying  Minie’s  place.  She  would  go  to  his  father,  tarry 
wdth  him  till  his  recovery  ; and  thus  if  the  illness  were 
lingering,  permit  Frank’s  occasional  visits  home,  without  any 
increased  anxiety.  If  he  thought  Minie  well  enough  to  be 
left,  her  resolution  was  taken,  she  would  go  with  him  to 
London. 

Minie’s  anxiety  calmed  on  the  instant  of  this  proposal,  and 
Frank,  with  real  gratitude,  acceded.  All  idea  of  Lord 
Glenvylle’s  dislike  to  her  attendance  was  banished  on  their 
arrival,  for  a prey  to  incessant  fever  and  delirium  only  varied 
by  lethargic  stupors,  he  knew  none  of  those  around  him.  Full 
of  affection  for  his  father,  notwithstanding  his  capricious 
conduct  towards  himself,  Frank’s  feelings  were  harrowed  to  a 
pitch  almost  of  agony ; not  so  much  at  the  bodily  sufferings 
which  he  could  not  alleviate,  but  from  the  unintelligible  yet 


336 


woman’s  friendship. 


seemingly  connected  ravings  of  delirium.  In  vain  Florence 
would  conjure  him  to  leave  the  apartment,  or  assure  him  there 
could  be  no  meaning  in  the  dark  words  he  heard.  He  would 
linger  spell-bound,  and  then  rush  from  the  room  to  pace  his 
own,  longing  to  disbelieve,  yet  feeling  that  he  could  not. 

He  had  never  dreamed  of  remorse  and  its  attendant  fears 
actuating  his  father.  His  nature  was  too  high,  too  pure  to 
permit  such  thought  as  touching  any  one  so  nearly  related  to 
himself.  He  know  not  of  what  he  raved,  save  that  it  was 
evil ; yet  there  were  words  which  froze  his  very  life  within 
him,  seeming,  in  spite  of  their  madness,  to  explain  much  of 
what  had  been  mysterious  in  his  parent  s life  before,  and  he 
pondered  on  them  till  his  brain  reeled. 

Meanwhile,  day  and  night  did  Florence  devote  herself  to 
the  suffering  man.  He  knew  her  not ; yet  her  presence,  her 
gentle  tending  often  appeared  to  soothe  him  when  all  else 
failed.  When  Frank  had  power  to  think,  he  implored  her  to 
take  more  care  of  herself.  What  claim  had  his  father  upon 
her  that  she  should  do  all  this  for  him  ? 

The  claim  of  the  suffering  and  the  repentant  upon  the 
healthful  and  the  innocent,”  was  her  instant  reply.  Frank, 
there  is  satisfaction  in  what  I do.  Do  not  care  for  me  ; only 
for  Millie’s  sake,  for  your  child’s,  calm  this  frightful  excite- 
ment ; trust  me,  all  will  yet  be  well.” 

‘‘Well!  If  there  should  be  cause  for  what  I hear. 
Florence,  does  not  he  rave  that  I — I,  though  his  son,  was  not 
his  heir  ? That  there  was  a previous  marriage,  that  then 
another  may  claim  the  name  and  the  title,  that  it  was  for  this 
I might  Aved  with  none  but  one  who  could  bestow  them. 
Title  ! what  care  I for  that  ? But  that  I,  who  so  gloried  in  a 
pure  line  of  ancestry,  in  noble  birth,  to  add  to  the  freedom 
and  beauty  of  life,  should  find  myself  a nameless  outcast. 
Florence,  can  this  be  well  ? ” 

She  tried  to  soothe  him,  to  argue  that  the  ravings  of 
delirium  ought  not  thus  to  disturb  him ; but  though  for  a 
time  her  efforts  succeeded,  whenever  those  fearful  wanderings 
were  renewed,  Frank  lost  all  power  of  reasoning;  the  very 
obscurity  in  which  his  parent  spoke  but  increased  the  torture 
of  his  mind. 

It  was  nearly  morning.  Florence  had  dismissed  the  watchers 
one  by  one,  and  as  Lord  Glenvylle  seemed  to  sleep  more 
calmly,  remained  at  last  alone  beside  him,  unconscious  that 


^VOMA]Ji'lS  rKIEKDJSHIP. 


337 


Frank,  refreshed  by  some  hours’  sleep,  had  returned  softly  to 
the  apartment,  and  shared  her  vigil,  hidden  from  her  by  the 
curtain  of  the  bed. 

For  nearly  an  hour  all  was  perfect  stillness,  and  she  was 
just  sinking  into  slumber,  when  those  low  terrible  mutterings 
which  were  always  the  forerunners  of  the  wildest  delirium, 
startled  her  into  wakefulness  anew. 

Madeleine  ! Madeleine  ! come  you  again?  Have  you  not 
tortured  me  enough  ? Yes  ! yes  ! I know  it.  You  need  not 
repeat  it  so  wildly.  You  married  Charles  Neville,  and  he 
deserted  you.  How  dare  you  call  yourself  my  wife  ? Am  I 
not  a Howard  ? Am  I not  Viscount  Glenvylle  ? What  has 
Charles  Neville  to  do  with  me  ? I know  you  not ! begone ! 

I have  no  child  but  my  poor  Frank.  You  shall  not  rob  him 
of  his  heritage.  I have  hoarded  gold ; take  it,  and  go  ! go ! 

I will  have  no  son  but  Frank ! Son — have  you  a son  ? Why 
not  come  before  ? Why  stay  so  long  ? Frank  is  too  old  now 
to  give  up  his  rights.  He  shall  not,  he  shall  not.  It  will 
break  his  heart.  My  boy ! my  own  boy  ! Go  ! go,  I tell  you  ! 
I am  not  Charles  Neville  now.  I sought  you,  and  you  would 
not  come.  Why  are  you  here  now  ? Love  me  1 Ay,  ay, 
Vvho  ever  loved  like  thee  ? My  own  poor  Madeleine,  and  yet 
I scorned  thee,  trampled  on  thee.  Where  have  you  been  this 
long  long  while  ? I did  not  murder — murder  ? what  fiend’s 
voice  spoke  ? Madeleine  ! Madeleine  I come  back  to  me  ; tell 
me  I have  no  child,  no  son  but  Frank.  You  will  not ! you  will 
not!  Off!  off!  Fiends!  devils!  Ye  hold  me  with  a grasp 
of  fire — off ! I will  not  go  with  ye  ! Off ! off ! ” 

The  unhappy  man  had  sprung  up  in  his  bed,  his  convulsive 
struggles  demanding  the  whole  strength  of  his  son  to  restrain 
him  on  his  couch.  But  though  actually  trembling  lest  the 
violence  of  his  madness  might  do  injury  to  himself  or  Frank, 
Florence  called  for  no  other  aid. 

For  several  minutes  the  paroxysm  lasted,  then  gradually 
subsided  as  if  life  had  indeed  departed.  Frank  moved  not ; 
once  only  he  spoke,  and  it  was  to  entreat  Florence  to  leave 
them  ; it  was  no  scene  for  her. 

Florence  !”  gasped  the  dying  man  ; who  spoke  of 
Florence  ? They  took  Madeleine  there  to  evade  me,  but  she 
loved  me  too  well  for  that,  and  she  came  to  me,  spite  of  all 
they  said,  and  how  did  I reward  her  ? Fiend,  fiend  ! yet  1 
did  love  her  as  I have  loved  none  other — and  her  child — has 

z 


338 


woman’s  friendship. 


she  a child  ? No,  no,  no  ! Frank,  Frank  ! I will  have  no 
son  but  him.  No,  no,  none  but  you,”  he  added  suddenly, 
fixing  his  dim  eyes  on  his  son’s  face,  unconscious  of  his 
identity.  Frank,  boy  ! good,  kind  boy,  forgive  me  ; I have 
wronged  you.  If  another  come  to  claim  your  heritage,  let 
him  have  it ! there  is  wealth  enough  for  you ; I have  hoarded 
it,  prized  it,  that  I might  leave  it  all  to  you.  They  cannot 
rob  you  of  that,  and  you  can  take  another  name  and  purchase 
another  title,  Frank,  and  forget  that  you  had  such  a guilty 
father.  Let  the  world  talk  as  it  will,  what  care  you  for  them? 
My  boy,  my  boy ! do  not  curse  me,  I have  loved  you,  spite  of 
all ! ” 

Father!”  exclaimed  the  unhappy  young  man;  ‘^father, 
in  mercy  cease,  or  speak  more  clearly.  What  have  I to 
forgive  ? What  have  I to  resign  ? If  I have  an  elder  brother, 
he  is  welcome  to  it  all.  Let  him  but  come  forward  and  leave 
only  a father.  Say  but  that  I am  your  own  son,  that  I have 
an  equal  right  to  bear  your  name,  and  for  aught  else — father, 
father,  tell  me  but  the  truth  ! ” 

‘‘You  may,  you  may  ! perhaps,  perhaps,  she  died  before 
your  mother  was  my  wife.”  And  Lord  Glen vy lie  sprang  up 
again,  the  wild  glare  of  his  sunken  eyes  contradicting  the 
apparent  sanity  of  his  words.  “ Frank,  Frank  ! if,  after  all, 
I should  have  no  other  child,  and  they  have  tortured  me  for 
nothing,  will  you  forgive  me  then  ? Yes,  yes — you  were 
always  good  and  kind,  and  so,  so  they  will  punish  me  through 
you — see,  she  glares  on  me  still  ? Madeleine  1 what  do  you 
there?  Why  do  you  kneel  by  my  couch  as  if  you  would 
forgive  ? You  cannot,  you  cannot : only  tell  me  that  you 
have  no  child  1 ” 

Shuddering,  and  scarcely  able  to  support  himself,  Frank’s 
glance  followed  the  wild  gaze  of  his  father,  as  if  in  the  excite- 
ment of  the  moment  he  almost  expected  to  see  the  being  so 
apostrophised.  He  saw  nothing  but  the  kneeling  form  of 
Florence,  on  whose  pale  countenance  the  dim  light  of  morning 
fell,  giving  it  an  unusual  expression  of  languor  and  illness ; 
her  black  hair  was  loosened,  and  falling  thickly  round  her, 
increased  the  illusion.  It  was  on  her  Lord  Glenvylle’s  eyes 
were  fixed,  distending  in  their  fevered  gaze  till  they  seemed 
about  to  burst  their  sockets.  The  convulsions  of  his  frame 
ceased,  liis  whole  figure  stiffened  in  his  son’s  arms,  his  features 
grew  rigid  as  stone. 


339. 


woman’s  friendship. 


339 


Madeleine,”  again  he  said,  in  a faint  and  hollow  voice, 
this  is  no  dream  ; no  fever.  Frank,  Frank,  does  her  child 
live  ? Is  it  a son  ? No,  no,  no,  she  is  my  wife — but  you,  my 
boy — ” the  jaw  dropped,  then  came  a gurgling  sound,  an 
appalling  struggle,  and  all  was  over.  They  watched  beside 
the  dead. 

* * * * * 

From  dawn  till  past  noon  had  Francis  Howard,  now  Lord 
Glenvylle,  remained  in  his  own  apartment,  refusing  ingress  to 
all,  and  leaving  to  the  faithful  steward  of  his  father  all  the 
duties  both  to  the  living  and  the  dead.  There  was  something 
pervading  his  whole  aspect  as  he  disappeared  from  amongst 
them,  which  effectually  secured  him  from  intrusion.  It  was 
not  till  nearly  two  hours  after  noon  that  his  own  servant 
found  courage  to  knock  at  his  door,  entreating  admission  on 
the  part  of  Miss  Leslie,  and  when  Frank  did  fling  it  im- 
patiently open,  the  man  started  back  appalled  at  the  change 
which  a few  brief  hours  had  wrought.  His  brow  was  indented, 
his  cheek  haggard,  his  lip  white  and  compressed,  and  the  voice 
in  which  he  demanded  w^hat  he  wanted,  totally  unlike  himself. 

The  man  was  the  bearer  of  a note  and  a packet  of  papers, 
which  Miss  Leslie  had  a few  minutes  before  conjured  him  to 
deliver  into  Howard’s  own  hand.  Frank  took  it,  but  carelessly 
threw  the  packet  aside.  The  note  was  from  Florence,  con- 
taining a very  few  brief  lines,  but  they  had  the  power  of 
making  him  impatiently  motion  the  man  aw-ay,  and  then  seize 
the  packet ; hour  after  hour  passed  and  found  him  engrossed 
with  it  still.  The  papers  were  of  various  sizes,  and  in  different 
hands  ; yet  one  after  another  was  perused  with  the  same 
avidity,  as  if  notwithstanding  their  different  appearance,  they 
told  but  one  continued  tale.  Frank’s  very  breath  seemed 
hushed ; but  could  any  one  have  witnessed  the  constant 
changes  of  his  countenance,  no  more  was  needed  to  betray  how 
deeply  he  was  moved  or  how  nearly  that  which  he  perused 
concerned^  him.  Again  and  yet  again  his  eye  returned  to 
some  particular  passages,  as  if  to  believe  from  a first  perusal 
was  impossible  ; and  it  was  not  till  twilight  had  gradually 
closed  around  him,  that  he  looked  up  from  the  deep  trance 
which  his  task  had  caused.  The  haggard  look  had  faded  from 
his  features,  the  brow  was  unknit,  the  lip  relaxed ; the  eyes 
were  full  and  moist,  as  he  raised  them  in  the  direction  of  the 

z S 


340 


WOMANS  FRIENDSHIP. 


calm  beautiful  heavens  ; and  his  clasped  hands,  his  parted  lip 
spoke  inward  thanksgiving  and  prayer. 

Frank  Gleiivylle  ! Brother,’'  murmured  a well-known 
voice  beside  him;  ‘‘we  may  love  each  other  still!”  He  caught 
her  to  his  heart,  and  manly  as  he  was,  eschewing  weakness 
almost  as  a crime,  his  varied  emotions  were  calmed  in  a flood 
of  tears. 

****** 

****** 

“Yes,  we  will  to  Woodlands,  vdth  our  dear  Minie,  as  soon 
as  may  be,”  exclaimed  Howard,  after  above  an  hour’s  quiet 
converse  had  calmed  his  excited  spirit,  and  the  elasticity  of 
the  young  Viscount  had  returned,  the  more  buoyant  it  seemed 
from  its  late  stagnation.  “ A few  days  ago  I felt  as  if  I could 
not,  ought  not  to  burden  her  with  the  sight  of  such  a wretched 
being  as  myself.  Tangible  evil  or  suffering,  I trust,  I could 
meet  as  a man  ; but  the  bewildering  doubt,  the  heavy  appre- 
hension of  misery  always  hanging  over  me,  which  my  poor 
father’s  words  created,  I could  not  bear.  I felt  as  if  I dared 
not  meet  my  beloved  wife,  or  my  innocent  babe  again.  But 
now,  now,  Florence,  my  own  sister — how  blessed  the  word 
sounds! — again  you  have  been  the  fountain  of  our  joy.  What 
had  we  been  without  you  ? ” 

“ Oh,  not  me,  dearest  Frank ; our  destiny,  our  happiness 
depended  not  on  a weak  mortal  like  myself  for  its  fulfilment. 
What  had  we  been  without  that  merciful  Providence,  who  out 
of  such  overwhelming  evil,  for  so  it  seemed,  could  bring  forth 
good  ? ” 

“ But  Minie,  think  you,  we  should  tell  her  this  wondrous 
tale  ? You  shrank  from  the  idea  of  imparting  it,  you  tell  me, 
as  loosening  every  tie  which  you  so  much  loved.  Do  not 
think  of  us,  but  answer  as  you  wish  yourself,  my  sister.  It 
shall  be  still,  if  you  will,  and  for  ever  kept  a secret  from 
Minie.” 

“ No,  Frank,  no,”  was  her  instant  answer  ; “let  there  be  no 
secret  between  us,  brother  and  sister  , as  we  are,  which  must  be 
kept  from  one  whom  you  have  made  my  sister  still.  No,  I 
can  bear  it  now.  We  will  tell  it  all  as  soon  as  she  has  strength 
for  the  excitement.  No  tie  will  be  loosened  now ; nothing 
which  can  bring  one  thought  of  pain.  Had  there  been  no 
cause  for  you  to  hear  it,  then  indeed  I had  never  breathed  the 
truth  to  mortal  ear ; for  remember  I am  Florence  Leslie  still. 


woman’s  friendship. 


341 


I acknowledge  no  other  parents  than  those  whose  name  I bear. 
Keep  these  strange  and  painful  records  from  the  world,  dear 
Frank.  None  live  save  ourselves  whom  they  can  in  aught 
interest  or  avail,  and  therefore  no  injustice  can  be  done  by 
their  concealment.  Let  Minie  indeed  know  all,  but  tell  it  to 
none  else.  Oh  ! wondrously  indeed  has  my  adopted  mother’s 
prayer  been  answered.  Dearest  Frank,  how  may  we  sufficiently 
bless  God ! ” 


CHAPTER  LV. 


A PEOVIDENCE  IN  ALL. 


Had  we  listened  to  onr  own  wishes,  gentle  reader,  our  task 
had  ended  with  the  concluding  words  of  the  previous  chapter, 
even  though  the  fortunes  of  our  heroine  might  have  appeared 
unfinished — marriage  or  death  being  the  general  climax  with 
which  biography  of  all  kinds,  be  it  historical  or  imaginary, 
concludes. 

It  was  our  own  earnest  wish  to  have  proved  that  a heroine 
might  be  happily  disposed  of  without  either  one  of  these 
alternatives.  But  facts  disposed  themselves  otherwise.  That 
to  a character  like  Florence,  the  life  of  a single  woman  would 
have  been  as  happy,  and  as  worthy  of  respect,  admiration,  and 
love,  as  the  very  warmest  of  her  well-wishers  could  desire,  we 
well  believe ; for  we  are  not  of  the  number  of  those  who  think 
that  marriage,  even  a very  happy  one,  affords  the  only  chance 
of  ensuring  felicity  and  the  proper  station  to  woman.  We 
believe  that  it  depends  mostly  on  women  themselves  to  secure 
their  own  happiness,  and  the  respect  and  love  of  others,  and 
that  they  can  do  this  as  single  women  as  well  as  by  becoming 
wives. 

We  do  not  deny  that  the  task  is  difficult.  To  conquer  the 
pain  of  loneliness  and  desolation,  to  subdue  the  natural 
yearnings  for  some  nearer  and  dearer  ties  than  merely  those  of 
blood,  which,  alas  ! but  too  often  cool  as  years  roll  on,  and 
our  homes  are  severed  like  our  interests ; and  those  on  whom 
the  single  woman  would  pour  forth  her  warmest  affections  give 
back  but  little  in  return,  for  they  have  dearer  ties  ; that  to  be 
content  with  this,  to  make  objects  of  affection  and  interest, 
requires  an  energy — a strength  of  purpose,  and,  above  all,  a 


woman's  friendship. 


343 


deep  clinging  sense  of  His  cherishing  love,  whom  we  cannot 
love  too  Avell,  which  feelings,  perhaps,  are  not  often  perfectly 
attained  ; and  therefore  it  is  that  we  see  single  women  but  too 
commonly  frittering  away  existence.  Still  hoping,  still  seeking 
for  that  eventful  change  in  life — marriage  ! — when  all  change 
has  long  been  passed ; and  their  endeavours  to  be  youthful,  to 
neglect  the  duties  of  one  station,  in  the  hope  of  attracting  for 
the  other,  loses  them  the  esteem  which  a higher  respect  for 
themselves,  and  contentment  with  their  lot,  would  unavoidably 
command.  We  hold  all  single  women,  who  so  know  themselves 
and  their  duties,  as  to  be  revered  and  loved  by  all  who  call 
them  relative  and  friend,  in  yet  higher  esteem  and  admiration 
than  those  happier  ones,  who  have  passed  through  life  hand- 
in-hand  with  a beloved  partner,  fostered  and  fostering,  blessing 
and  blessed.  For  the  wife,  in  all  her  struggles,  all  her  pains, 
all  her  failings,  all  her  virtues,  has  she  not  love  to  heal,  to 
soothe,  to  shield,  to  encourage,  to  reward  ? For  the  single 
woman,  where  may  she  look,  save  to  herself  and  to  her  God  ! 
How  glorious  the  energy  that  snatches  her  from  listlessness 
and  trifling.  How  sainted  the  principle  that,  shielding  her 
from  self,  and  its  host  of  petty  miseries  and  ills,  bids  her  live 
for  others,  in  whom  she  has  no  wife  nor  mother's  claim. 

Yet  to  make  a heroine  sink  into  this,  to  endow  her  with  no 
brighter  destiny,  would  call  down  on  the  writer  the  charge  of 
incompleteness  and  injustice.  In  vain  have  we  urged  that  to 
one  like  Florence  Leslie,  the  good  performed,  the  misery 
averted,  the  happiness  created  by  her  acts  of  self-denial  and 
devotedness,  would  be  sufficient  recompense. 

But  why  would  you  have  had  Florence  suffer  thus,  and 
meet  with  no  reward  ? " we  think  we  hear  some  readers  ask. 
1^0  reward ! Oh ! is  there  none  in  the  privileges  just 
enumerated?  None,  in  a life  of  virtue  and  its  attendant 
faith,  in  a lovelier  life  above  ? And  even  if  there  were  none, 
we  would  not  inculcate  the  false  doctrine  that  suffering  must 
be  followed  by  temporal  recompense.  It  is  a wrong,  a mis- 
leading belief  to  look  to  this  world  for  the  reward  of  good  ; a 
mistaken  moral  to  insist  that  the  adherence  to  the  good,  the 
sacrifice  of  self,  the  endeavour  to  realize  the  perfectibility  of 
virtue,  must  find  its  recompense  here  below,  or  the  economy 
of  Divine  justice  is  imperfect.  Becompense  there  is,  as  in- 
comparably above  the  deserts  of  even  the  most  perfect  upon 
•earth,  as  the  Gracious  Bestower  is  above  those  on  whom  it  is 


344 


woman’s  friendship. 


bestowed.  But  it  comes  not  wholly  in  this  world  ; we  must 
look  upwards  to  receive  it ; and  therefore  do  we  urge  that  the 
moral  of  that  tale  is  false  which  would  crown  a life  of  trial 
with  the  dazzling  lustre  of  earthly  joy.  Not  that  our  mortal 
course  is  desolate.  If  our  readers  have  felt  with  Florence, 
they  have  traced  love  gleaming  up  through  all,  and  must 
acknowledge  with  her,  that  she  had  her  reward  even  in  this 
world.  The  silver  lining  ” was  beneath  the  thunder-cloud, 
and  the  darkest  misery  brought  forth  joy. 

Yet  loving  as  she  did,  how  was  it  possible  that  she  could 
ever  be  happy  or  associate  with  the  object  of  that  love,  dis- 
covering him  to  be  her  brother  ? The  most  probable  thing  was 
that  she  should  go  mad. 

Not  so,  captious  critic  ! We  are  not  of  the  tornado  school, 
and  can  quite  believe,  though  a woman  can  never  love  twice 
as  she  has  loved  once,  there  is  no  occasion  for  death  or  mad- 
ness to  be  her  cure.  Nay,  we  are  sufficiently  unromantic  to 
believe,  that  passion  may  actually  be  conquered,  and  that  by 
securing  the  happiness  of  those  she  loved,  Florence  went  the 
surest  way  to  work,  and  absolutely  did  conquer  it,  although  at 
the  cost  of  her  own  health  and  happiness,  before  the  truth 
was  known.  We  further  allege,  that  as  nearty  two  years 
elapsed  between  the  discovery  of  the  misery  she  had  so 
narrowly  escaped  and  her  seeing  Frank  again,  it  was  quite 
possible  for  her,  when  they  did  meet,  to  regard  him  only  as 
the  brother,  which,  by  his  marriage  with  Minie,  she  had  before 
tutored  her  mind  and  heart  to  consider  him.  The  horror 
which  had  seized  her  when  the  truth  was  first  revealed,  had 
indeed  been  such  as  to  terrify  Lady  St.  Maur  for  her  returning 
health,  but  her  strong  mind  had  conquered ; and  some  time 
before  they  left  Italy,  every  painful  leeling  had  merged  into 
quietness  and  confidence,  gratitude  and  joy.  She  no  longer 
shunned  his  image  or  his  memory.  Her  very  horror  of  wffiat 
might  have  been,  and  her  constant  gratitude  that  the  deep 
misery  had  been  turned  aside,  ever  prevented  the  recurrence  of 
any  thought  which  could  disturb  her  peace. 

But  did  Frank  himself  ever  know  at  what  cost  to  Florence 
he  had  been  saved  from  a doom,  at  the  very  thought  of  which 
he  shuddered?  Not  from  the  lips  of  Florence.  Neither  lie 
nor  Minie,  while  they  blessed  her  as — humanly  speaking — not 
alone  the  creator  but  the  preserver  of  their  joy,  ever  knew  how 
painfully  the  first  had  been  purchased.  If  a thought  of  the 


woman’s  friendship. 


345 


truth  did  ever  flash  across  tlie  mind  of  Frank,  as,  when  he 
recollected  former  suspicions  of  unhappiness,  it  might  naturally 
have  done,  it  was  suppressed  so  quickly  that  it  could  never 
take  defined  form,  much  less  expressed  word  ; and  he  believed 
with  his  wife,  that  Florence’s  injured  health  and  drooping 
spirits  originated  in  her  fatal  secret  alone.  Minie’s  varied 
emotions  at  the  tale  she  heard,  we  leave  to  the  imagination  of 
our  readers.  Suffice  it  that  Florence  never  had  reason  to 
regret  that  it  had  been  imparted.  Sisters,  bound  by  no  com- 
mon affection,  they  had  been  from  infancy,  and  such  even, 
through  long  years  of  marriage  and  maternity,  they  change- 
lessly  remained. 

It  is  the  fashion,  we  believe,  in  the  concluding  chapters  of 
a tale,  as  in  the  last  scene  of  a drama,  to  bring  all  the  dramatis 
personce  on  the  boards  together.  As,  however,  our  characters 
are  almost  all  disposed  of,  either  in  narrative  or  conversation, 
we  must  eschew  the  common  mode,  and  briefly  as  may  be 
dismiss  those  that  remain. 

To  the  'world,  the  tale  we  have  related  was  never  known, 
never  even  rumoured.  That  the  young  Viscount  insisted  on 
settling  half  of  his  father’s  long-hoarded  wealth  on  Miss  Leslie, 
was,  from  his  character,  no  very  great  matter  of  surprise. 
The  sacrifice  she  had  made  for  him  was  cause  sufficient,  and 
so,  after  the  subject  had  been  gossiped,  exaggerated,  and 
treated  in  every  variety  of  light,  it  was  dismissed  to  make 
room  for  those  other  matters  of  moment  to  the  great,  scandal- 
loving,  busy-body  world. 

To  one  other  person  alone,  in  addition  to  those  whom  we 
have  named,  was  the  eventful  tenor  of  Miss  Leslie’s  life 
revealed. 

It  was  a lovely  summer  evening,  rather  more  than  two  years 
after  Lord  Glenvylle’s  death,  that  two  persons  were  sitting  in 
one  of  the  pretty  little  parlours  of  Amersley,  opening  on  a 
retired  part  of  the  park.  They  had,  it  appeared  by  the  lady’s 
attire,  been  walking,  but  as  their  conversation  deepened  in 
interest,  the  repose  and  solitude  of  that  little  boudoir  had 
been  unconsciously  sought,  as  less  liable  to  interruption  than 
either  garden  or  park.  The  lady  had  thrown  aside  her  bonnet, 
and  as  she  sat,  her  face  upturned  to  the  gentleman,  he 
standing  beside  her,  though  the  features  disclosed  no  positive 
beauty,  they  were  such  as  arrest  irresistibly,  particularly  when 
beaming  as  they  were  at  that  moment.  Though  the  period  of 


346 


WOMAN  S FRIENDSHIP. 


girlhood  had  merged  into  the  epoch  of  woman's  loveliest 
maturity,  when  one  degree  nearer  thirty  than  twenty,  she 
unites  all  the  truth  and  freshness  of  early  youth,  with  those 
calmer,  more  finished  graces  which  have  come  not  to  pass 
away,  but  to  deepen  and  endure.  One  glance  on  that  open 
brow,  that  full  dark  eye,  that  finely  chiselled  mouth,  will 
suffice  for  her  recognition  by  all  those  whose  interest  in 
Florence  Leslie  had  sketched  her  image  in  their  minds. 

To  the  Florence  of  our  first  chapter  she  bore  indeed  little 
outward  resemblance,  save  such  as  the  opening  flower  does  to 
the  early  rose-bud.  But  even  as  the  full-blown  rose  reveals 
the  luscious  scent  and  glowing  beauty  which  the  bud  contained, 
although  in  part  concealed,  so  did  her  character,  as  it  now 
shone  forth,  confirm  and  perfect  the  promise  of  its  bud.  The 
timid,  shrinking  girl  was  now  the  dignified  though  still  retiring 
woman.  The  high  and  truthful  sentiments  which  had  formerly 
been  spoken  tremblingly,  as  scarcely  daring  to  find  expression, 
lest  scorners  should  mock,  or  the  more  experienced  should 
pity,  were  now  avowed  calmly,  unostentatiously,  as  they  had 
been  acted  upon  in  the  many  trials  of  her  life.  The  heart 
which  had  throbbed  and  quivered  at  the  faintest  word  of 
kindness,  and  which  a silken  thread  had  led,  if  held  by  a 
loving  hand,  now  rested  on  itself  meekly  and  truthfully, 
contented  with  the  love  it  gave,  and  the  love  it  received. 
Living  for  others  indeed  still ; but  feeling  to  the  full  that 
such  existence  was  only  living  for  her  purer  self. 

Her  companion  appeared  some  two  or  three  years  her 
senior,  tall  and  finely  formed.  A high  polish  and  elegance  of 
tone  and  manner  marked  at  once  the  English  gentleman,  and 
there  was,  too,  an  honest  frankness  in  all  he  said,  which 
rendered  it  impossible  to  mistake  his  profession;  but  both 
their  characters — as  he  stood  leaning  over  the  arm  of  the 
couch  where  Florence  sat — had  so  evidently  merged  into  the 
anxious  lover,  that  they  may  be  passed  over  with  very  lil^tle 
notice.  Florence  had  been  speaking  long  and  earnestly, 
evidently  narrating  circumstances  or  feelings,  to  which  Sir 
Ronald  Elliott  listened,  scarcely  breathing  lest  he  should  lose 
a word,  though  much  of  what  she  told  him  he  already  knew. 

“ You  know  all  now,”  she  said,  in  conclusion,  ‘"more  than 
any  being  on  earth  knows  except  Lord  and  Lady  St.  Maur, 
more  than  I ever  believed  could  pass  my  lips  again.  Yet 
acting  nobly,  generously,  as  you  have  done  by  me,  it  is  your 


woman’s  friendship. 


347 


due.  I neither  could  nor  would  have  become  your  wife,  with 
any  one  circumstance  untold.  Of  course,  had  not  all  love 
been  previously  subdued,  the  very  fact  of  discovering  who  it 
was  with  whom  in  perfect  ignorance  and  innocence  my  affections 
had  become  twined,  must  have  banished  the  passion  for  ever, 
even  if  to  do  so  had  caused  my  death,  which,  perhaps,  had  it 
not  been  conquered,  must  inevitably  have  ensued.  But 
though  five  years  have  elapsed  since  then,  and  all  love  has 
passed  away  as  entirely  as  if  it  had  never  been,  save  that  I 
now  shrink  from  its  thought  with  such  shuddering  that  I dare 
not,  if  I could  feel  such  emotion  again,  how  may  I hope  or 
believe  that  a heart  which  has  lost  the  sunny  freshness  of 
youth’s  first  feelings  will  bestow  on  you  the  happiness,  which 
you  tell  me  can  exist  but  with  its  possession  ? Do  not  hesitate 
to  speak  those  sentiments  which  my  unvarnished  narration 
may  have  excited.  You  cannot  have  known  the  facts  before, 
and  therefore  have  I so  hesitated  to  accept  the  attentions  you 
have  lavished  on  me  during  the  last  few  months.  I longed  for 
you  to  know  the  truth,  believing  that  if  known  you  must  cease 
to  value  a heart  which  can  give  so  poor  a return  for  all  the 
devotedness  of  yours.” 

‘'So  poor  a return  !”  he  answered,  passionately.  “Florence, 
call  you  truth,  confidence,  esteem,  affection,  however  calm  and 
unimpassioned  from  a heart  like  yours,  but  poor  return  ? Oh ! 
dearer,  more  precious  to  me  thus  revealed  than  the  first  and 
freshest  love  of  the  loveliest  on  earth.  You  know  not  how  for 
the  last  five  years,  aye,  from  the  first  evening  I beheld  you 
sitting  in  your  deep  sorrow,  in  this  very  room,  at  Ida  s feet,  I 
have  borne  your  image  with  me,  wherever  you  have  been — 
though  how  might  I annoy  you  with  attentions,  with  words  of 
love,  when  your  thoughts  were  all  fixed  on  other  things.  No, 
Florence,  no.  Lord  St.  Maur  penetrated  my  secret,  and,  to 
save  me  from  the  danger  of  unrequited  love,  he  told  me 
almost  all  you  have  revealed,  save  the  name  of  him  you 
loved ; and  yet  I loved,  aye,  hopeless  as  it  seemed.” 

“ All ! you  knew  all — even  the  doubt  iipon  my  birth  ! and 
yet  you  would  have  made  me  yours  1” 

“ Yes,  dearest ! and  those  things  they  told  me  to  diminish 
love  increased  it  tenfold.  What  was  to  me  the  doubt  upon 
your  birth  ? Yourself  alone  I loved,  aye,  worshipped ; for 
the  deep  sanctity  your  uncomplaining  sorrow  flung  around 
you,  permitted  little  of  mere  earthly  passion  to  mingle  with 


348 


^voman’s  friendship. 


my  love.  What  to  me  that  you  had  resigned  your  heritage 
for  the  happiness  of  others,  save  that  the  very  deed  first  woke 
me  to  the  consciousness  how  unchangeably  I loved  ! In  the 
brief  visit  I paid  to  England,  eighteen  months  ago,  I looked 
on  you  again,  and  hope  grew  stronger,  yet  still  I feared  to 
commit  my  fate  to  words.  I dared  not  aslc  you  to  be  mine, 
lest  even  hope  should  be  for  ever  banished  by  your  refusal. 
Again  we  met,  I know  not  what  bolder  feeling  awoke  within 
me.  You  did  not  entirely  reject  attention;  you  did  not  refuse 
my  companionship  and  sympathy.  You  spoke  to  me  more 
than  once  as  to  one  whose  character  was  not  wholly  beneath 
your  confidence  and  regard.  Florence,  my  beloved,  it  was 
from  these  little  things  I gathered  hope,  for  I knew,  I felt  such 
conduct  could  not  proceed  from  one  who  is  truth  itself,  did 
she  intend  me  to  speak  in  vain.  Forgive  me  that  I did  not 
interrupt  you  when  you  spoke,  by  avowing  I knew  all  before. 
Your  confidence,  your  truth,  were  too  precious  to  be  so 
checked.  They  told  me  that  the  esteem,  the  affection  I pined 
for  were  my  own,  or  you  had  not  thus  spoken ; that  as  a friend, 
a husband,  dearest  Florence,  that  confidence,  that  affection 
would  bless  me  still.  One  thing  only  you  told  me  that  I did 
not  know  before ; till  this  very  day,  nay,  this  very  hour,  I 
knew  not  that  the  mystery  of  your  birth  had  been  dispersed, 
your  real  parentage  made  known.  I can  guess  wherefore  St. 
Maur  withheld  the  truth,  and  I owe  him  the  sincerest  grati- 
tude for  so  doing.  I could  almost  wish  it  had  not  been  so, 
that  I might  prove  how  little  such  thoughts  could  weigh  with 
me.” 

I do  not  need  such  proof,  dear  Eonald,  or  rather  you  have 
proved  it,”  replied  Florence,  with  one  of  those  bright  glistening 
smiles  that  sometimes  returned  to  her  lip  like  the  reflection  of 
other  days,  and  she  made  no  resistance  to  the  change  in 
Elliott  s position  from  standing  to  sitting  by  her  side,  with  one 
arm  most  daringly  thrown  round  her  waist. 

And  you  will  be  mine,  mine ! in  very  truth  my  own,” 
whispered  the  enraptured  lover,  looking  upon  the  sweet  face 
till  it  blushed  beneath  his  gaze.  ‘^Mine,  spite  of  all  Edmund’s 
long  sermons  as  to  the  pure  romance  of  what  I felt — can  it 
indeed  be  ? I have  dreamed  of  such  bliss  so  long,  it  feels  like 
a dream  still.  Speak  to  me  but  once,  love  ! say  but  one  little 
word,  that  it  is  no  illusion  : you  will  be  mine  ?” 

Yes,  dearest  Ronald  !”  she  replied,  simply  and  frankly,  and 


woman’s  miENDSIIIP. 


349 


her  clear,  truthful  eyes  sunk  not  beneath  his.  ''Six  months 
ngo  I thought  my  destiny  fixed,  and  thanked  God  for  its  calm 
and  quiet  joys  ; but  with  you,  shielded  by  a love  like  yours,  I 
feel,  and  have  felt,  perhaps,  for  the  last  month,  that  had  I a 
heart  worthy  of  the  love  you  gave,  I might  be  happier  still. 
But  there  is  one  person  to  be  consulted,”  she  added,  with  a gay 
smile,  perceiving,  though  Elliott  was  too  much  engrossed  to  do 
so.  Lord  and  Lady  St.  Maur  coming  up  the  path  to  the  glass 
door.  "Not  Minie,  because  she  will  be  too  happy  to  think  I 
have  a chance  of  being  happy  as  herself ; nor  Frank,  for  the 
same  reason  ; and  I believe,  could  he  choose  a brother,  he 
would  have  chosen  you ; not  Lord  St.  Maur,  but  his  and  our 
Ida,  who  has  vowed  vengeance  on  any  man  who  would  rob  her 
of  one  whom  she  flatteringly  terms  so  useful  a friend  as  my- 
self. Go  and  use  your  eloquence  with  her,  dear  Konald,  for 
wed  without  her  consent  I cannot.” 

" I have  no  fear,”  was  his  joyous  reply,  springing  from  the 
side  of  Florence  to  that  of  the  Countess,  almost  with  a bound, 
and  in  a very  few  minutes  they  wxre  all  within  the  room ; the 
Earl,  grasping  the  Captain’s  hand  with  a most  sympathising 
pressure,  and  Lady  St.  Maur  holding  Florence  in  a w^arm 
embrace,  whispering  such  affectionate  congratulation  that  it 
almost  brought  forth  tears. 

"Yes,  I will  give  her  to  you,  Konald,”  she  said,  "for  your 
love  does  deserve  her ; and  as  your  wife,  I shall  not  only  keep 
a friend  but  gain  a relative.  If  any  one  had  prophesied  this 
years  ago,  that  my  lowly  flower  of  St.  John’s  w'as  to  become 
cousin  and  dearest  friend  to  that  same  Lady  Ida  Villiers,  from 
whom  the  simple  girl  then  almost  shrunk  in  aw-e  because  she 
was  an  Earl’s  daughter,  and  who  afterwards  suffered  all  kinds 
of  sorrow  rather  than  claim  a friend  in  one  she  so  foolishly 
loved,  because  rank  and  fortune  came  between  us — if  any  one 
had  prophesied  this,  I say,  who  would  have  believed  it?” 

"And  if  any  one  were  to  read  my  tale,  dearest  Ida,  would 
they  not  scoff  and  say  that  to  friendship  like  yours  the  world 
affords  no  parallel ; that  it  is  pretty  to  read  of,  but  is  never 
found  ? That  one  of  your  rank  must  have  neglected,  if  she 
did  not  forget,  one  lowly  as  myself ; that  in  the  world,  fashion 
not  feeling  must  guide,  and  therefore  none  of  your  rank  and 
.station  could  be  as  you  have  been.  Oh  ! you  know  not  how 
your  friendship  aided  in  making  me  as  I am.  The  world  sees 
but  the  surface  of  life ; it  knows  not  wdiat  little  things  may 


350 


WOMANS  PRIENDSHIP. 


influence  and  guide,  and  how  much  female  friendship — in 
general  so  scorned  and  scoffed  at — may  be  the  invisible  means 
of  strengthening  in  virtue,  comforting  in  sorrow,  and,  without 
once  interfering  with  any  nearer  or  dearer  tie,  may  heighten 
inexpressibly  the  happiness  and  well-doing  of  each/’ 


